j 


CLOUD    CASTLE 

AND    OTHER    PAPERS 
BY     EDWARD     THOMAS 

With    a    Foreword    by   W.    H.    HUDSON 


NEW   YORK 

E.   P.    BUTTON  AND    COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


Printed  in  Great  Britain  by 
Rilling  and  Sont,  Ltd.,  Guild  ford  and  Eshtr. 


FOREWORD 

[A  few  days  before  his  sudden  death,  Mr.  W.  H.  Hudson 
undertook  to  write  an  Introduction  for  this  collection  of 
essays  by  the  late  Edward  Thomas.  This  fragment  was 
found  among  his  papers  after  his  death,  and  is  now 
printed  as  being  of  interest  to  the  admirers  of  both  these 
authors.} 

THE  writings  of  Edward  Thomas  are  sufficiently 
well  known  to  readers  of  recent  literature,  and 
much  has  been  said  in  appreciation  of  his  work, 
both  prose  and  verse,  by  several  of  the  lead- 
ing critics  of  the  time.  As  an  admirer,  I  am 
pleased  to  find  myself  in  such  good  company; 
but  as  a  practically  unlettered  person  this  is 
all  I  can  say  on  the  subject.  For  me  it  is  only 
to  speak  in  this  Foreword  of  Edward  Thomas, 
the  man,  as  I  knew  him,  who  was  my  friend  and 
one  of  the  most  lovable  beings  I  have  ever  known. 
It  may  be  that  our  friendship  was  somewhat 
unusual,  as  there  was  a  considerable  difference 
in  our  respective  ages,  and  we  were  poles  apart 
in  the  circumstances  of  our  lives.  He,  an  Oxford 
graduate,  and  a  literary  man  by  profession;  I, 
unschooled  and  unclassed,  born  and  bred  in  a 
semi-barbarous  district  among  the  horsemen  of 
the  pampas.  But  there  were  two  or  perhaps 


vi  FOREWORD 

three  things  that  drew  us  together:  first,  our 
feeling  for  nature,  and,  secondly,  for  poetry ;  and 
as  his  knowledge  of  poetic  literature  was  so 
much  profounder  than  mine,  and  his  judgment 
so  much  more  mature,  I  was  glad  to  accept  him 
as  my  guide  in  that  extensive  wilderness.  I 
was  not  always  a  perfectly  docile  pupil,  as  he 
was  intolerant  of  inferior  verse,  while  I  took  a 
keen  interest  in  the  forgotten  minor  poets  of 
the  last  century.  This  was  often  the  subject  of 
our  conversation,  and  I  had  no  objection  to  it. 
I  think,  too,  or,  rather,  I  should  say  I  know  it, 
that  the  chief  reason  of  the  bond  uniting  us  was 
that  we  were  both  mystics  in  some  degree.  He 
was  shy  of  exhibiting  it,  and  either  disguised 
it  or  attributed  it  to  someone  he  meets  and  con- 
verses with  in  his  rambles,  as  in  "  Cloud  Castle," 
the  first  sketch  in  this  collection  of  papers  which 
he  himself  arranged  for  publication  before 
leaving  England.  It  is  more  manifest  in  his 
poetry,  that  being  the  medium  through  which 
a  man  can  best  reveal  his  soul.  And  I  take  it 
that  all  true  poets  are  in  some  degree  mystic, 
that  what  we  call  inspiration  in  the  poet,  with- 
out which  his  work  can  scarcely  be  poetic,  is 
mysticism. 


CONTENTS 

PACK 

FOREWORD,   BY  W.   H.   HUDSON   -  V 

I.   CLOUD   CASTLE     -  I 

II.    AUNT  ANN'S   COTTAGE      -  -        II 

III.  THE   SHIP  OF  SWALLOWS  -                                •        33 

IV.  MORGAN  -                -                -  -                -                "43 
V.   HELEN      -  -63 

vr.  ISOUD     -  79 

VII.   A  MAN   OF  THE   WOODS  -  9! 

VIII.    SEVEN  TRAMPS     -                                                                  -  "101 

IX.    DEATH   BY   MISADVENTURE            -                                -  III 

X.    A  COLLOQUY   IN   A   LIBRARY         -                                -  117 

XI.   FELIX        -                                                                                   -  137 

XII.   BRONWEN                .....  155 

XIII.  MIKE         ...                                -  167 

XIV.  SAVED  TIME           -                                ...  j^g 
XV.  THE  MOON              .....  193 


[The  papers  entitled  "Aunt  Ann's  Cottage"  and 
"  Morgan  "  originally  appeared  as  part  of  the  author's  story 
"  The  Happy-go-Lucky  Morgans."  They  were  subsequently 
revised  by  him  and  marked  for  inclusion  in  the  present 
volume.] 


vn 


CLOUD   CASTLE 


I 

CLOUD  CASTLE 

ALL  the  life  of  the  summer  day  became  silent 
after  sundown;  the  earth  was  dark  and  very 
still  as  with  a  great  thought;  the  sky  was  as  a 
pale  window  through  which  men  and  angels 
looked  at  one  another  without  a  word.  The 
two  friends  were  now  silently  walking  together 
towards  a  house  in  the  west,  whose  walls  and 
lights  they  now  began  to  expect  at  any  moment 
in  the  distance.  But  instead  of  the  abrupt 
shaggy  hill  overshadowing  the  house,  usually 
a  mammoth  figure  in  the  sky  of  evening,  they 
saw  a  hill  many  times  huger  and  more 
precipitous  rising  halfway  up  the  heavens.  It 
seemed  a  mountain  forest,  craggy  and  so  black 
that  in  its  flanks  might  have  been  carved  the 
caverns  from  which  night  now  emerged  so 
superbly,  and  to  which  it  would  retreat  at 
sunrise  and  nurse  itself  against  the  evening  and 
the  next  summons.  Round  upon  round  it  rose 

3 


4  CLOUD  CASTLE 

up,  nodding  but  secure,  until  its  summit  over- 
hung the  rocky  base  and  on  this  ledge  was  the 
likeness  of  a  wall  and  turret  in  ruins.  Such 
a  castle  it  might  have  been  as  a  child  draws 
with  its  eyes  out  of  nothing,  when  it  reads  for 
the  first  time  of  the  Castle  Perilous  or  Joyous 
Gard,  set  far  above  the  farms  and  churches  and 
factories  of  this  world,  as  those  knights  and 
ladies  are  set  above  the  earthly  labourers  and 
clerks  and  policemen  and  servant  maids. 
And  this  mount,  this  mountain  forest  and  over- 
hanging brow,  this  incredibly  romantic  ruin 
upon  the  shelf  of  it,  were  built  out  of  cloud 
in  the  violet  western  sky.  In  the  folds  of  it, 
above  its  trees,  and  in  a  niche  of  the  Castle  at 
the  crest,  the  stars  came  out. 

The  road  gradually  ascended,  and  often  in 
the  series  of  long  rises  and  shorter  falls,  that 
vision  in  the  west  was  for  a  little  way  shut  out, 
and  more  and  more  the  hill  of  earth  and  trees 
for  which  they  were  making  increased  upon  the 
sky.  But  the  castled  forest  of  the  mountainous 
dark  cloud  was  fixed  upon  their  brains  and  the 
men  began  to  speak  of  it,  at  first  in  careless 
admiration  mixed  with  talk  of  the  weather, 
and  then  more  meaningly.  One  said  that  such 


CLOUD  CASTLE  5 

notable  efforts  of  Nature  were  ennobling,  that 
they  gave  a  religious  uplifting  to  his  thought, 
that  we  could  no  more  do  without  them  than 
without  ceremonies  on  earth.  In  the  presence 
of  these  heavenly  ceremonies  no  mean  act  or 
thought  was  possible,  and  although  the  time 
had  long  passed  away  when  it  was  irreligious 
to  do  certain  things  in  the  sight  of  the  full  moon, 
yet  he  was  sure  that  such  prohibitions  were  not 
superstitious  but  received  a  sanction  that  was 
above  reason  and  acquired  knowledge,  in  his 
own  case  and  doubtless  in  others.  His  own 
work  was  the  instructing  of  young  men  in  a  craft 
of  which  he  was  a  master,  and  he  trusted  that 
his  power  to  respond  to  these  things  in  a  way 
helped  to  justify  a  position  which  had  something 
of  a  priestly  character  for  him.  He  cleared  his 
throat  nervously,  and  with  some  shame,  after 
so  pompous  a  confession. 

'  You  ask  me  what  I  think  about  it,"  said 
the  other,  "  but  it  is  so  very  definite  that  I 
expect  you  will  put  it  down  to  my  own  irre- 
sponsible fancy.  When  I  see  these  things  I 
flush  and  shiver,  as  I  have  done  ever  since  I  can 
remember,  at  contact  with  beauty  in  human 
beings,  or  Art,  or  Nature,  or  with  heroic  conduct, 


6  CLOUD  CASTLE 

and  then  forthwith  I  begin  to  perform  some 
imaginary  act  which  they  inspire :  for  example, 
I  have  just  ridden  at  the  end  of  a  long  day  over 
endless  hills  and  arrived  at  nightfall  under  a 
granite  precipice  so  steep  and  huge  that  it 
blackened  half  the  sky,  and  at  its  edge,  high  as 
the  moon,  was  a  battlemented  and  bannered 
tower.  I  tethered  my  horse  to  an  elder  that 
grew  out  of  the  cliff,  the  only  tree  in  that  barren 
land,  unlaced  my  helmet  and  threw  it  with  my 
lance  among  the  nettles,  and,  not  without  my 
sword,  began  to  climb.  On  my  way,  I  passed 
several  nests  of  falcons  on  ledges  where  I  stayed 
for  breath,  and  sometimes  the  Castle  was 
hidden  and  so  was  the  moon,  and  when  I  could 
see  anything  but  my  own  hands  and  the  juts 
of  the  granite  in  my  grasp,  it  was  only  the 
swelling  round  tower  and  the  moon  and  the 
banner  that  now  and  then  blotted  out  the 
moon  in  its  fluttering.  I  reached  an  eagle's 
nest,  and  there  I  fell  asleep,  and  when  I  began 
to  climb  again  the  moon  was  behind  me  and 
very  low,  and  all  the  cliff  was  bathed  in  light 
and  I  seemed  to  hang  like  a  carven  imp  on  a 
sublime  cathedral  wall  among  the  incense.  At 
last  I  swung  myself  to  where  I  could  walk  on 


CLOUD  CASTLE  7 

the  turf  among  the  yellow  rock-rose  flowers  of 
the  narrow  ledge  which  no  foot  had  trodden, 
between  the  Castle  wall  and  the  brink  of  the 
precipice.  I  peered  and  listened  at  the  windows 
where  the  bowmen  should  have  been,  but  I  saw 
and  I  heard  nothing.  I  raised  my  sword  to 
strike  against  the  gate,  but  without  a  blow  it 
opened  wide  and  admitted  me  to  a  chamber 
whose  far  sides  were  invisible,  and  whose  roof 
was  the  star-sown  sky,  and  then  along  corridors 
and  up  staircases  and  through  dark  chamber 
after  chamber,  with  doors  ajar,  or,  obedient 
to  the  clamour  of  my  sword,  I  went  eagerly 
forward,  and  round  about  and  back  upon  my 
steps  again  and  ever  upward  until  I  came  near 
to  a  chamber  which  I  knew  contained  what  I 
sought,  though  what  that  was  I  knew  not  as  yet. 
The  room  was  lighted,  as  I  could  see  beneath 
its  closed  door.  Unlike  the  other  doors  this 
was  latched  and  small,  and  as  I  raised  my  hand 
to  open  it,  my  fingers  knew  the  smooth  latch 
and  my  feet  the  threshold  and  my  nostrils  the 
fragrance  and  my  eyes  the  fire  that  burned  on 
the  hearth.  The  setting  moon  passed  through 
an  open  casement  and  lit  up  a  little  room,  with 
an  old  table  piano  at  one  side  and  a  table  with 


8  CLOUD  CASTLE 

a  bowl  of  flowers  at  the  other,  and  between  the 
two  by  the  fire  a  boy,  standing  with  his  back 
towards  me.  I  could  see  only  his  short  black 
hair,  red  neck,  blue  jersey,  and  brown  bare 
legs,  but  the  poise  I  knew  at  once  was  that  of 
a  boy  whom  I  had  not  seen  since  I  also  was  ten 
years  old.  Thirty  years  ago,  I  promised  to  go 
with  him  to  rob  a  kestrel's  nest,  but  the  day 
appointed  came  and  I  did  not  go,  I  cannot 
remember  why.  I  never  saw  him  again  till 
now.  He  seemed  to  be  crying,  and  I  thought 
that  it  was  because  I  had  disappointed  him. 
And  now  I  understood  that  it  was  no  use.  I 
was  sorry,  and  at  first  eager  to  ease  myself 
with  the  bitter  happiness  of  telling  him  so,  but 
I  did  not  move.  He  would  not  know  me  in  my 
absurd  developments,  my  beard,  my  sword, 
and  all  the  rest.  I  hoped  that  perhaps  his 
tears  were  sweet  by  this  time,  and  that  he  was 
crying  more  for  luxury  than  sadness,  and  I 
started  most  silently  to  go  out  when  he  also 
moved  and  said,  '  You  have  come  at  last,  let 
us  go.'  I  did  not  see  his  face  as  he  spoke,  and 
before  I  could  turn  and  look  at  him — your 
question,  Oliver,  took  away  both  the  room  and 
the  dream.  Now  I  can  see  the  lights  of  Gordon's 


CLOUD  CASTLE  9 

house.  I  shall  ask  him  if  he  remembers 
Llewelyn — that  little  boy  in  the  jersey.  All 
those  years  I  had  forgotten  him,  but  perhaps 
Gordon  knows  something  about  him.  I  wonder 
is  he  alive.  Somehow,  when  I  recall  him,  I 
cannot  believe  that  he  ever  grew  up;  he  was 
strong  as  a  mountain  pony  and  rash.  Some- 
thing— I  cannot  explain;  only  I  cannot  picture 
the  man  however  much  I  try,  it  is  as  if  his  had 
been  a  face  and  figure  not  destined  to  turn  into 
a  man's,  that  is  all.  After  all,  I  don't  think  I 
will  ask  either.  ..." 

(1912.) 


AUNT  ANN'S   COTTAGE 


II 

AUNT  ANN'S  COTTAGE 

Two  of  us  were  walking  together  and  talking 
nearly  all  the  time,  just  as  things  occurred  to 
our  minds  which  were  at  rest  in  beautiful 
weather. 

"  Since  we  passed  that  white  house  behind 
the  cedars/'  I  laughed,  "  we  have  wandered 
from  Gwithavon,  the  pure  British  name  of  a 
river  in  Essex,  to  a  fishmonger's  advertisement 
in  the  Battersea  Park  Road.  Such  are  the 
operations  of  the  majestic  intellect.  What 
do  you  think  ?  Do  you  suppose  the  cave- 
men were  very  different,  except  that  they  can 
seldom  have  troubled  about  philology  and 
would  probably  have  eaten  their  philologers, 
and  they  did  without  fishmongers  because  fish 
were  caught  to  eat  and  not  to  sell  ?" 

"Well?"  said  Jones.  "I  daresay  what  we 
have  in  common  with  the  cavemen  is  what 
most  helps  us  to  go  on  living  except  in  so  far 

13 


14  AUNT  ANN'S  COTTAGE 

as  we  are  fishmongers  and  philologers.  Scratch 
a  philologer  and  you  will  find  a  sort  of  caveman." 

'  Yes :  but  isn't  it  a  little  disconcerting  to 
think  that  two  men  who  have  been  to  one  of 
our  ancient  universities  should  zigzag  in  this 
fashion  ?  I  think  that  to  prove  our  self-respect 
we  ought  to  go  soberly  back  on  our  footsteps 
and  see  what  sort  of  a  pattern  we  made  while 
we  were  in  charge  of  the  cavemen's  god." 

"  All  right;  but  let  it  be  simply  for  fun.  It 
is  a  game  I  am  very  well  used  to.  When  we 
were  children,  my  brother  and  I  used  to  be 
sent  to  chapel  to  represent  our  parents  who  got 
up  too  late.  After  dinner  we  were  put  into  a 
room  to  write  down  the  main  points  of  the 
sermon.  My  young  brother  who  was  destined, 
as  you  now  know,  to  be  an  atheist  and  a  statis- 
tician, could  do  this  perfectly  well,  and  I  could 
copy  from  him  by  right  of  primogeniture. 
For  I,  on  the  other  hand,  never  heard  more 
than  a  sentence  at  a  time,  and  for  that  matter 
if  I  go  to  a  public  meeting  nowadays  to  please 
a  lady  I  never  hear  more  than  that.  The 
difference  is  that  now  I  am  bored  and  impatient 
with  myself  and  the  lady  for  putting  me  into 
a  foolish  position,  whereas  nothing  was  more 


AUNT  ANN'S  COTTAGE  15 

delightful  than  the  half  hour  during  which  my 
brother  listened  to  the  sermon  and  I  went 
wool-gathering.  ...  I  don't  know  who  the 
original  wool-gatherers  were,  but  I  always  think 
they  must  have  been  uncommercial  men  whose 
task  it  was  to  wander  over  the  mountains  and 
be  beforehand  with  the  nesting  birds,  gathering 
from  rock  and  thorn  the  locks  of  wool  left 
by  the  sheep,  a  task  that  must  take  them  into 
many  a  wild  new  place  without  overburdening 
them  with  wool  or  profit  or  applause  at  the  end 
of  the  day.  .  .  .  While  my  brother  was  writing 
out  the  skeleton  sermon,  I  used  to  wander 
backward  over  the  windings  of  my  chapel 
wool-gathering  and  of  course  strike  out  again 
here  and  there  to  right  or  left  after  more  wool 
and  more  thorn  and  rock. 

"  The  preacher  was  a  mild,  tall  man,  with  a 
mane  of  curling  black  hair,  clean  shaven,  long 
white  face,  thin  exquisitely  formed  lips,  and  a 
rich  voice  that  murmured  in  a  quiet  musing 
manner  that  enchanted  me  so  much  that  I  was 
soon  in  a  state  of  half  dream.  The  light  was 
dim  as  with  gold  dust.  It  was  warm.  The 
people  around  were  soporific,  too:  I  imagined 
them  to  be  asleep  and  I  alone  awake,  and  my 


16  AUNT  ANN'S  COTTAGE 

first  steps  had  something  of  the  thrill  one  feels 
in  stealing  out  of  a  silent  house  at  dawn.  I 
listened  to  the  preacher's  voice  and  fixed  my 
half-closed  eyes  on  the  ash-tree  just  outside  one 
of  the  windows  on  the  south  side.  As  a  rule  the 
text  alone  was  a  sufficient  portal  to  my  wander- 
ings. Alas !  of  all  of  them  I  can  recall  only  one, 
and  that  because  at  the  end  of  the  sermon  the 
preacher  was  seized  with  a  fit  of  sneezing  and 
I  felt  a  slight  pang  because  I  finished  my  ramble 
at  this  painful  moment.  It  was  not  at  all  an 
extraordinary  wool-gathering,  though. 

"  The  text  was  the  three  verses  in  the  first 
chapter  of  Genesis  that  describe  the  work  of 
creation  on  the  fifth  day.  In  that  musing  way, 
as  if  he  were  oblivious  of  all  but  his  ideas,  which 
made  me  really  fond  of  him,  the  preacher 
murmured :  '  Let  the  waters  bring  forth  abun- 
dantly the  moving  creature  that  hath  life,  and 
fowl  that  may  fly  above  the  earth  in  the  open 
firmament  of  heaven.' 

"  That  was  enough.  For  me  it  was  all  the 
sermon.  I  saw  at  once  a  coast  of  red  crags  and 
a  black  sea  that  was  white  far  below  me  where 
the  waves  got  lost  in  the  long  corridors  between 
the  crags.  The  moon,  newly  formed  to  rule 


AUNT  ANN'S  COTTAGE  17 

the  night,  stood  full  and  large  and  white  at  the 
top  of  the  arch  of  the  sky  that  was  black  as  the 
sea  and  without  a  cloud.     And  out  of  the  waters 
were  rising  by  twos  and  threes,  but  sometimes 
in  multitudes  like  a  cloud,  the  birds  who  were  to 
fly  in  the  open  firmament  of  heaven.     Sea  birds 
with  long  white  wings  spread  wide   emerged 
singly  out  of  the  black,   and  paused  on  the 
surface  and  let  their  wings  rise  up  like  the  sides 
of  a  lyre  and  then  skimming  low  this  way  and 
that  rose  up  in  circles  at  last  and  screamed 
around  the  moon.     Several  had  only  risen  a 
little  way  when  they  fell  back  into  the  sea  and 
vanished,  and  these  I  supposed  were  destined 
to  be  deprived  by  the  divine  purpose  of  their 
wings  and  to  become  fish.     Eagles  as  red  as 
the  encircling  crags  came  up  also,  but  they  were 
always  solitary  and  they  ascended  as  upon  a 
whirlwind  in  one  or  two  long  spirals,  and  blacken- 
ing the  moon  for  a  moment  they  disappeared. 
The  little  birds  that  sing  were  usually  born  in 
cloudlets,  white  and  yellow  and  dappled  and 
blue,    and,    after   hovering   uncertainly   at   no 
great  height,  made  for  the  crags,  where  they 
perched  above  the  white  foam  and  twittered 
in  concert  or,  straying  apart,  sang  shrill  or  soft 

2 


i8  AUNT  ANN'S  COTTAGE 

and  low  or  in  stormy  luxuriance  after  their  own 
kind.  And  ever  and  anon  the  flocks  of  those 
who  had  soared  now  floated  downward  across 
the  moon  and  went  over  my  head  with  necks 
outstretched  and  crying  towards  the  mountains 
and  moors  and  pools  or  sloped  still  lower  and 
alighted  and  sailed  on  the  waters,  where  they 
screamed  each  time  the  black  surface  yawned 
at  a  new  birth  of  white  or  many-coloured  wings. 
Very  soon  the  sea  was  chequered  from  shore  to 
horizon  with  birds,  and  the  sky  was  heaving 
continually  with  others,  so  that  the  moon  could 
be  seen  either  not  at  all  or  in  slits  and  wedges, 
and  the  crags  were  covered,  as  if  with  moss 
and  leaves,  with  birds,  chiefly  those  that  sing, 
and  they  mingled  their  voices  as  if  in  a  dawn 
of  May. 

"  At  a  word  from  the  preacher  creeping  in 
upon  me,  I  forgot  about  the  fifth  day  of  the 
Creation,  but  not  about  the  birds,  and  as  it  was 
then  February,  I  thought  chiefly  about  their 
nests  and  eggs.  I  went  over  in  my  mind  the 
different  kinds  I  had  taken  the  year  before. 
They  were  all  in  one  long  box  procured  from  the 
village  shop  where  it  used  to  hold  bottles  of 
cheapest  scent.  I  had  not  troubled  to  arrange 


AUNT  ANN'S  COTTAGE  19 

them,  and  in  the  chapel  I  saw  the  confusion  of 
the  moorhen's  and  coot's  big  freckled  eggs,  and 
between  these,  often  in  double  layers,  the  blue 
and  the  white  and  the  olive,  the  spotted,  the 
blotched  and  the  scrawled  eggs.  For  a  minute, 
I  forgot  the  eggs  by  thinking  of  a  poem  I  had 
begun  to  copy  out  and  had  laid  away  with  the 
eggs.  It  was  the  first  poem  I  had  ever  read 
for  my  own  pleasure  several  times,  and  I  had 
begun  to  copy  it  in  my  best  handwriting,  the 
capitals  in  red  ink.  I  had  got  as  far  as  '  Some 
mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  .  .  .'  I  tried  to 
repeat  the  verses  but  could  not,  and  so  I  returned 
to  the  eggs.  I  thought  of  the  April  past  and  the 
April  to  come,  when  I  should  once  more  butt  my 
way  through  thickets  of  perpendicular  and  stiff 
and  bristling  stems,  through  brier  and  thorn 
and  bramble  in  the  double  hedges;  I  would 
find  the  thrushes'  nests  in  a  certain  oak  and 
blackthorn  copse  where  the  birds  used  hardly 
anything  but  moss,  and  you  could  see  them  far 
away  among  the  dark  branches  which  seldom 
had  many  leaves  but  were  furred  over  with 
lichens.  I  would  go  to  all  those  little  ponds 
shadowed  by  hazels  close  to  the  farms,  where 
there  was  likely  to  be  a  solitary  moorhen's  home, 


20  AUNT  ANN'S  COTTAGE 

and  up  into  the  pollard  willow  which  used  to 
have  four  starling's  eggs  at  the  bottom  of  a  long 
narrow  pocket.  In  all  those  spring  days  I  had 
no  aim  but  finding  nests,  and  if  I  was  not  scram- 
bling in  a  wood  I  walked  with  my  head  lifted  up 
to  the  trees  or  turned  aside  to  the  hedges  or  bent 
down  to  the  grass  and  undergrowth.  I  was  not 
in  the  least  curious  about  the  eggs,  or  any 
question  of  numbers  or  variation  in  size,  shape, 
or  colour.  Sun,  rain,  wind,  deep  mud,  water 
over  the  boots  and  knees,  scratches  to  arms  and 
legs  and  face,  dust  in  the  eyes,  fear  of  game- 
keepers and  farmers,  excitement,  dizziness, 
weariness,  all  were  expressed  by  the  plain  or 
marked  eggs  in  the  scent  box ;  they  were  all  I  had 
and  I  valued  them  in  the  same  way  and  for  the 
same  reason  as  the  athlete  valued  the  parsley 
crown.  I  recalled  the  winning  of  this  one  and 
that,  repenting  sometimes  that  I  had  taken 
more  than  I  should  have  done  from  the  same 
nest,  sometimes  that  I  had  not  taken  as  many 
as  would  have  been  excusable:  also,  I  blushed 
with  annoyance  because  I  had  never  revisited 
certain  nests  which  were  unfinished  or  empty 
when  I  discovered  them — what  a  pity,  perhaps 
the  ploughboy  robbed  them  completely.  How 


AUNT  ANN'S  COTTAGE  21 

careless  the  country  boys  were,  putting  them 
in  their  hats  and  forgetting  all  about  them, 
often  breaking  them  wantonly.  I  envied  them 
their  opportunities  and  despised  them  for  taking 
them  as  a  matter  of  course. 

"  I  thought  of  the  flowers  I  trampled  over  and 
the  smell  and  the  taste  of  the  cowslips  and 
primroses  and  various  leaves  and  the  young  brier 
stems  chewed  and  spat  out  again  as  I  walked. 
I  began  to  count  up  the  Sundays  that  must  go 
before  there  would  be  any  chance  of  finding 
rooks'  eggs.  And  that  reminded  me  of  the 
rookery  in  the  half-dozen  elms  of  a  farmhouse 
home-field  close  by  the  best  fishing  place  of  all. 
The  arrow-headed  reeds  grew  in  thick  beds 
here  and  there  and  the  water  looked  extra- 
ordinarily mysterious  just  this  side  of  them, 
as  if  it  might  contain  fabulous  fish.  Only  last 
season  I  had  left  my  line  out  there  while  I  slipped 
through  the  neighbouring  hedge  to  look  for  a 
reed-bunting's  nest,  and  when  I  returned  I  had 
to  pull  in  an  empty  line  which  the  monster  had 
gnawed  through  and  escaped  with  hooks  and  bait. 
It  was  just  there  between  the  beds  of  arrow-head 
and  that  immense  water-dock  on  the  brink:  I 
vowed  to  try  again.  Everybody  had  seen  the 


22  AUNT  ANN'S  COTTAGE 

monster  or  at  least  the  swirl  he  made  as  he 
struck  out  into  the  deeps  at  a  passing  tread. 
'  As  long  as  my  arm,  I  daresay/  said  the 
carter,  and  cracked  his  whip  emphatically,  with 
a  suggestion  that  the  fish  was  not  to  be  caught 
by  me.  Well,  we  shall  see. 

"  As  usual,  the  idea  of  fishing  was  connected 
with  my  Aunt  Ann.  There  was  none  worth 
speaking  of  unless  we  stayed  with  her  in  our 
holidays.  I  often  saw  persons  fishing,  who 
certainly  did  not  stay  with  her  and  probably 
would  not  have  known  of  her  if  she  was  men- 
tioned, but  they  never  caught  anything.  The 
way  their  floats  swam  had  not  the  right 
look.  Now,  I  could  have  enjoyed  fishing  by 
those  arrow-heads  without  a  bait,  so  fishy  did  it 
look,  especially  on  Sundays  when  no  fishing 
was  allowed:  it  was  unbearable  to  see  that 
look  and  have  no  rod  or  line." 

"  Yes,"  I  interrupted,  "  that  fascinating  look 
is  quite  indescribable,  and  I  can  quite  under- 
stand how 

Simple  Simon  went  a- fishing 

For  to  catch  a  whale, 
But  all  the  water  he  had  got 

Was  in  his  mother's  pail. 


AUNT  ANN'S  COTTAGE  23 

I  have  seen  that  look  in  tiny  ponds  and  fished 
in  one  simply  on  the  strength  of  it  and  against 
popular  advice,  but  gave  it  up  because  I  caught 
newts  continually  and  nothing  else.  Do  you 
know,  when  I  lifted  them  up  out  of  that  strange 
water  I  shuddered  and  felt  as  if  I  were  being 
punished  by  a  spirit  of  the  pond  ?" 

"  I  have  the  same  feeling  about  eels  and  never 
fish  a  second  time  where  I  have  caught  one: 
their  twisting  is  utterly  abandoned  and  un- 
mingled  protest  and  agony,  and  I  feel  that  if 
men  did  not  think  even  so,  would  they  writhe 
in  pain  or  grief. 

"  To  my  wool-gathering.  In  the  chapel  I 
could  see  that  shadowed  water  by  the  reeds 
and  the  float  in  the  midst.  In  fact,  I  always 
could  see  that  picture  in  my  mind.  I  liked  the 
water  best  when  it  was  quite  smooth ;  the 
mystery  was  greater,  and  I  used  to  think  I 
caught  more  fish  out  of  it  in  that  state.  I  hoped 
it  would  be  a  still  summer  and  very  warm.  It 
was  nearly  three-quarters  of  a  year  since  I  was 
there  by  the  rookery  meadow  last — eight  months 
since  I  last  tasted  my  aunt's  doughy  cake  ! 
I  could  see  her  making  it,  first  stoning  the 
raisins,  while  the  dough  was  rising  in  a  pan  by 


24  AUNT  ANN'S  COTTAGE 

the  fire;  when  she  thought  I  was  not  looking 
she  stoned  them  with  her  teeth,  but  I  did  not 
mind,  and  now  I  come  to  think  of  it  they  were 
very  white  teeth,  so  that  I  can't  think  why 
no  man  ever  married  her  for  them  alone.  I 
suppose  she  was  too  busy,  making  cakes  and 
wiping  the  dough  off  her  fingers,  and  wondering 
if  we  had  got  drowned  in  the  river,  to  think 
about  lovers.  I  am  glad  no  man  did  marry  her ; 
I  mean,  I  was  glad  then.  For  she  would  prob- 
ably have  given  up  making  doughy  cakes  full 
of  raisins  and  spice  if  she  had  married.  She 
existed  for  that  and  for  supplying  us  with  lamb 
and  mint  sauce  and  rhubarb  tart  with  cream 
when  we  came  in  from  bird's-nesting.  How 
dull  it  must  be  for  her,  thought  I  in  the  chapel, 
all  alone  there  and  the  fishing  over  and  no  birds 
laying  yet,  no  nephews  and,  therefore,  I  supposed, 
no  doughy  cakes,  for  she  could  not  be  so  greedy 
as  to  make  them  only  for  herself.  She  lived  all 
alone  in  a  little  cottage  in  a  row  at  the  edge  of 
a  village.  Hers  was  an  end  house.  The  rest 
were  very  neat,  but  hers  was  hidden  by  ivy 
which  grew  through  the  walls,  up  between  the 
flagstones  of  the  floor,  and  flapped  in  at  the 
windows;  it  grew  also  over  the  panes,  and  was 


AUNT  ANN'S  COTTAGE  25 

so  dense  that  the  mice  ran  up  and  down  it,  and 
you  could  see  their  pale  silky  bellies  as  they 
crossed  the  glass,  if  they  did  not  look  in  over 
the  sill  and  enter.  The  ivy  was  full  of  sparrows' 
nests,  and  it  made  the  neighbours  angry  that 
she  would  not  have  them  pulled  out.  We  never 
thought  of  touching  these  nests,  not  if  the 
neighbours'  sons,  who  were  acquaintances, 
suggested  it.  I  wished  I  lived  there  always, 
always  in  a  house  covered  with  ivy,  and  kept 
by  an  aunt  who  baked  and  fried  for  you  and  tied 
up  your  cuts,  and  would  clean  half-a-hundred 
perchlings  without  a  murmur,  though  at  the  end 
she  had  half  covered  her  face  and  the  windows 
with  the  flying  scales.  '  Why  don't  you  catch 
two  or  three  really  big  ones  ? '  she  said,  sighing 
for  weariness,  but  still  smiling  at  us,  and  putting 
on  her  crafty-looking  spectacles.  '  Whew  !  if 
we  could  !'  we  said  to  one  another:  it  seemed 
possible  as  we  stood  there,  for  she  was  a  wonder- 
ful woman,  and  the  house  wonderful  too — no 
anger,  no  sorrow,  no  fret,  such  a  large  fireplace, 
everything  different  from  London  and  altogether 
better.  The  ticking  of  her  three  clocks  was 
delicious,  especially  early  in  the  morning  as  you 
lay  awake,  or  when  you  got  home  tired,  and  it 


26  AUNT  ANN'S  COTTAGE 

was  twilight  and  no  lamps.  Everything  had 
been  like  that  in  the  house  '  ever  so  long/  you 
could  not  tell  how  long;  it  was  natural,  like  the 
trees;  it  was  never  stale;  you  never  came  down 
in  the  morning  and  felt  you  had  done  the  same 
yesterday  and  would  do  the  same  to-morrow, 
as  if  each  day  was  like  a  new  badly- written  line 
in  a  copy-book,  with  the  same  senseless,  dismal 
words  at  the  head  of  the  page.  Why  couldn't 
we  always  live  there  ?  There  was  no  chapel 
for  us.  Sunday  was  not  the  day  of  grim  dulness 
when  everybody  was  set  free  from  work,  only 
to  show  that  he  or  she  did  not  know  what  to 
do  or  not  to  do;  if  they  had  been  chained  slaves, 
they  could  not  have  been  stiff er  or  more  grim. 

"In  my  fancy  these  adult  people  were  a  different 
race:  I  had  no  thought  that  I  should  become 
like  that,  and  I  laughed  without  a  pang.  How 
different  my  aunt  with  her  face  serene,  kind,  not- 
withstanding that  she  was  bustling  about  all 
day  and  had  trodden  down  her  heels  and  let  her 
hair  break  out  into  horns  and  wisps.  I  thought 
of  the  race  of  women  and  girls.  I  thought  (with 
a  little  pity)  they  were  very  much  nicer  than 
men,  thought  more  of  you  and  were  kinder. 
I  would  rather  be  a  man,  I  mused,  and  yet  I 


AUNT  ANN'S  COTTAGE  27 

was  sure  women  were  better.  I  would  not  give 
up  my  right  to  be  a  man  some  day,  but  for  the 
present  there  was  no  comparison  between  the 
two  in  my  affections;  there  was  not  a  man  I 
should  have  missed.  Odd  things  the  women 
did,  though.  They  always  wore  gloves  when 
they  went  out,  for  example.  Now,  if  I  put  on 
gloves,  it  was  almost  as  bad  as  putting  a 
handkerchief  over  my  eyes,  or  cotton-wool  in 
my  ears.  They  picked  flowers  with  gloved 
hands.  Certainly  they  had  their  weaknesses. 
But  think  of  the  different  ways  of  giving  an 
apple.  A  man  caused  it  to  pass  into  your 
hands  in  a  way  that  made  it  annoying  to  give 
thanks.  A  woman  gave  herself  with  it,  and  it 
was  as  if  the  apple  was  part  of  her,  and  you  took 
it  away  and  ate  it,  sitting  alone  very  peace- 
fully and  thinking  of  nothing.  A  boy  threw  it 
at  you  as  if  he  wanted  to  knock  your  teeth  out, 
and,  of  course,  you  threw  it  back  at  him  again 
with  the  same  intent.  A  girl  gave  it  so  that 
you  wanted  to  give  it  back,  if  you  were  not 
somehow  afraid.  I  thought  of  three  girls  who 
lived  near  my  aunt,  and  would  do  anything  I 
wanted,  as  if  it  was  not  I  but  they  who  wanted 
it.  Perhaps  it  was.  Perhaps  they  wanted 


28  AUNT  ANN'S  COTTAGE 

nothing  except  to  give.     Well,  and  that  was 
rather  stupid,  too. 

"There  the  preacher's  voice  must  have  half 
released  me  from  the  spell,  and  I  turned  to  a 
dozen  things,  as  what  o'clock  it  was,  whether  one 
of  my  pigeons  would  have  laid  its  second  egg 
when  I  got  home,  and  how  many  I  should  have 
altogether  in  a  year's  time,  whether  Monday's 
post  would  bring  a  letter  from  a  friend  who  was 
in  Kent,  going  about  the  woods  with  a  game- 
keeper who  gave  him  squirrels,  stoats,  jays, 
magpies,  an  owl,  and  once  a  woodcock  to  skin. 
I  recalled  the  sweet  smell  of  the  squirrels;  it 
was  abominable  to  kill  them,  but  I  liked  skinning 
them.  I  went  over  the  increasing  row  of  books 
on  my  shelf.  First  came  '  The  Compleat 
Angler,'  the  thought  of  which  gave  me  a  brief 
entry  into  an  indefinite  alluring  world  of  men 
rising  early  in  the  mornings  and  catching  many 
fish,  and  talking  to  milkmaids  who  had  sung 
songs  with  beautiful  voices,  and  using  strange 
baits.  I  wish  I  could  say  now  how  that  book 
(a  very  poor  edition)  shut  up  between  its  gilded 
covers  a  different,  embalmed,  enchanted  life 
without  any  care,  from  which  life  I  emerged  with 
the  words  '  as  wholesome  as  a  pearch  of  Rhine,' 


AUNT  ANN'S  COTTAGE  29 

which  recalled  actual  perch  swimming  in  clear 
water  in  the  green  streets  of  the  ponds  on  sunny 
days.  Then  there  were  Scott's  poems,  a 
book  which  then  only  meant  a  vision  of  armed 
men  rising  suddenly  out  of  heather  and  rocks 
on  a  mountain  side,  and  a  fierce,  plaided  chief 
exclaiming : 

And,  Saxon,  I  am  Rhoderick  Dhu. 

Next  '  Robinson  Crusoe/  '  Grimm's  Fairy 
Tales/  'The  Iliad/  and  a  mass  of  almost 
babyish  books,  tattered  and  now  untouched, 
but  strictly  preserved;  and  lastly,  '  The 
Adventures  of  King  Arthur  and  the  Round 
Table.'  As  I  reached  this  book,  '  Inexorable 
man/  I  heard  the  lady  of  the  lake  say  to 
Merlin,  '  thy  powers  are  resistless  ' ;  moonlit 
waters  overhung  by  mountains  and  castles  on 
their  crags,  boats  with  a  dark,  mysterious 
freight;  knights  trampling  and  glittering; 
sorceries,  battles,  dragons,  kings  and  maidens, 
stormed  or  flitted  through  my  mind,  some 
only  as  words  and  phrases  learnt  by  heart,  some 
as  pictures.  It  was  a  delicious  but  shadowy 
entertainment  with  an  indefinable  quality  of 
remoteness  tinged  by  the  pale  moonshine  and 


30  AUNT  ANN'S  COTTAGE 

the  cold  lake  that  finally  suggested  the  reward 
and  solid  comfort  of  tea  at  my  aunt's  house, 
and  thick  slices,  '  cut  ugly/  of  her  doughy  cake. 
"  Processions  of  living  people,  these  also  partly 
in  words  and  partly  in  pictures,  passed  through 
my  mind.  They  were  faces  peering  above 
bundles  of  clothes,  but  some  crying  out  for 
clearer  recognition  by  means  of  tones  of  voice, 
decided  and  often  repeated  expressions  of  all 
the  features  acting  together,  and  producing  the 
effect  which  was  their  soul.  They  came  up  to 
me  for  judgment.  Most  I  sent  quickly  away; 
others  I  stopped  and,  like  a  schoolmaster,  com- 
pelled them  to  recite  some  chance  word  or  deed 
of  theirs  tarrying  in  my  memory.  On  they 
came,  and  I  became  conscious  of  the  numbers 
at  that  moment  surrounding  me  in  the  chapel 
seat.  I  looked  at  them  and  grew  afraid  of  their 
silent  solitude,  and  tried  to  keep  myself  distinct 
yet  felt  myself  melting  into  the  mass  when  the 
preacher  quoted  the  words : 

He  liveth  best  who  loveth  best 
All  creatures  great  and  small. 

What  he  went  on  to  say  was  lost.    I  looked  at 
the  people  to  see  what  they  would  do.     The 


AUNT  ANN'S  COTTAGE  31 

preacher  said  the  words  majestically,  and  I 
supposed  them  to  be  true.  I  was  sorry  for  those 
squirrels  which  the  gamekeeper  shot,  but  I 
wanted  to  have  their  skins :  with  all  these  others 
I  thought  it  must  be  different.  They  had 
listened  to  the  sermon,  they  came  to  listen,  and 
probably  to  learn  and  follow  the  true.  I  was 
expecting  them  to  get  up  and  go  out,  and  show 
that  they  loved  something  very  small,  like  an 
ant  or  fly.  At  that  moment  a  small  moth 
alighted  on  my  knee,  and  I  watched  it  creep  and 
flutter  up  my  leg  to  my  shoulder.  I  did  not 
feel  that  I  loved  it.  The  moth  flew  on  to  the 
upper  part  of  a  man's  sleeve  in  front  of  me.  He 
scarcely  moved  his  head,  but  I  knew  he  had  seen 
the  flight;  he  lifted  his  hand  slowly,  dropped 
it  swiftly  on  the  moth,  whose  scales  powdered 
his  coat,  and  then  became  rigid  again.  Evidently 
the  words  were  not  believed  to  be  true.  Why 
did  poets  say  so  many  things  that  people  seemed 
to  like  and  did  not  believe,  I  wondered  ?  But 
what  if  they  were  true,  after  all  ?  I  resolved  to 
go  on  with  my  copying  of  Gray's  '  Elegy  '  that 
very  afternoon,  also  not  to  collect  moths.  It 
entered  my  head  that  my  aunt  was  merciless 
to  mice;  it  was  a  grave  objection,  for  she  was 


32  AUNT  ANN'S  COTTAGE 

to  me  the  corner-stone  of  the  universe.  Here 
the  sermon  ended  with  a  sneeze.  I  was  very 
sorry  for  the  preacher,  but  I  fear  I  did  not 
love  him.  As  to  moths,  I  never  became  a 
collector." 

"What  a  very  consistent  wool-gathering," 
said  I;  "  I  don't  suppose  the  sermon  was  more 
so.  And  did  you  notice  it  was  all  pictorial  ? 
I'll  be  bound  you  don't  go  wool-gathering  in 
that  fashion  now,  and  if  the  child  is  so  much 
superior  to  us,  how  much  more  the  caveman 
may  have  been  !" 

"  Except  that  I  don't  believe  any  caveman 
ever  had  such  an  aunt  as  mine.  There  can  have 
been  no  superfluous  good  women  in  those  days, 
born  simply  to  delight  their  sisters'  and  brothers' 
boys." 

"  And  now  let  us  set  out  for  Gwithavon  !" 

(1913-) 


THE    SHIP   OF   SWALLOWS 


Ill 

THE  SHIP  OF  SWALLOWS 

SOMEONE  was  talking  in  very  glowing  words 
about  a  sunrise,  and  this  set  the  artist  raging : 

"  Hark  at  that  gentleman  talking  about  a 
sunrise — in  October,  too — and  his  only  one,  I 
warrant !  Half  our  modern  verses  and  prose 
for  that  matter  would  never  have  been  written 
if  an  unwonted  early  rising  or  late  sitting  had 
not  set  the  writer's  nerves  on  edge,  and  made 
their  nasty  vapours  '  stream  in  the  firmament/ 
This  Nature  poetry-stuff  is  the  jejune  enthusiasm 
of  townsmen  who  are  ashamed  to  confess  that 
they  are  such.  It  dates  from  the  turning  of 
England  into  a  town  with  a  green  backyard. 
When  men  lived  in  the  fields  and  rose  early,  they 
cared  too  much  for  these  things  to  think  to 
please  one  another  by  writing  impressively  about 
them.  Who  of  these  men,  or  of  outdoor  men 
to-day,  can  stomach  fellows  like  that  arum-lily 
talking,  and  the  poet  he  quotes,  who  at  least 

35 


36  THE  SHIP  OF  SWALLOWS 

has   the  wisdom  to  watch  his  dawns  from  a 
comfortable  bed  ?" 

The  speaker  was  a  little  wiry  man,  with  blue 
eyes  in  a  brown  tangly  face  like  speedwells  in 
a  furze  bush,  whose  fondness  for  being  about 
at  all  hours  of  the  day  and  night  was  extreme 
enough  to  explain  the  low  repute  of  his  can- 
vases. 

"  But  you  go  too  far  the  other  way,"  said  a 
mild,  pale  man  with  spectacles,  whose  body  was 
bent  in  a  slight  curve  by  his  large  head.  "  The 
dawn  has  always  been  the  same.  ..." 

"  I  deny  that,"  said  the  youngest.  "  The 
dawn  changes  as  men  change.  Caractacus  would 
not  recognize  a  dawn  of  Turner's,  and  I  should 
only  be  interested  as  a  person  with  an  historic 
sense  in  the  kind  of  dawn  that  lighted  Caractacus 
to  his  spear  and  his  sword." 

'  The  dawn,"  continued  the  mild,  pale  man, 
"  has  always  been  the  same,  and  clothes  the 
passing  of  time  for  us,  in  spite  of  our  clocks,  as  for 
those  who  had  none,  with  beauty  and  awe.  It 
will  be  some  years  before  a  man  ceases  to  feel 
himself  a  member  of  no  mortal  or  only  mun- 
dane commonwealth,  when  he  sees  with  what 
ceremony  the  day  begins.  At  this  hour  Nature 


THE  SHIP  OF  SWALLOWS  37 

wears  the  buskin,  and  justifies  all  poetry  and 
pride  of  man.  I  see  chiefly  sunsets  myself. 
It  does  not  suit  me  to  rise  for  sunrises  in  town 
when  I  am  working,  or  in  the  country  when  I 
am  trying  not  to  work.  Still,  I  have  seen  them. 
My  father  farmed  two  hundred  and  fifty  acres 
in  Kent,  milked  forty  cows,  and  grew  enough 
hops  to  make  half  a  hundred  children  happy 
for  a  week  in  picking  them.  .  .  .  No,  well, 
I  don't  pretend  to  be  a  countryman,  except 
while  I  am  rheumaticky." 

The  artist  was  smiling  good-naturedly  now. 
He  liked  the  stiffly-curved  man  in  spite  of  a 
certain  stateliness.  The  two  took  a  turn  round 
the  garden  together.  The  artist  was  lured  so 
far  as  to  talk  about  dawns  simply  for  what 
weather  they  foretold.  The  other  went  on: 

"  The  beauty  of  a  dawn  in  fair  weather  does 
me  good.  I  believe  it  liberalises  my  feelings 
for  the  rest  of  the  day.  In  spite  of  ill  health 
I  think  I  may  say  I  have  no  morbidity.  I  have 
heard  women  speak  as  if  they  felt  just  what  I 
feel,  and  they  have  less  morbidity  and  less 
poetry  than  men.  But  I  remember  one  in 
particular,  chiefly  because  of  the  extraordinary 
unsought  image  by  which  it  is  now  represented 


38  THE  SHIP  OF  SWALLOWS 

in  my  mind.     You  might  do  a  painting  of  it, 
though  it  is  more  suitable  for  a  symbolist. 

'  We  lost  our  second  child  when  she  was  only 
a  year  old.  She  died  in  the  afternoon,  in  the 
middle  of  a  shower  that  suddenly  dashed  down 
upon  the  heat  of  July.  Soon  after  midnight 
my  wife  at  last  fell  asleep.  I  could  not  sleep. 
So  I  put  on  my  clothes  and  read  a  book,  a  story 
or  two  of  very  thin  stuff  as  it  seemed  to  me, 
and  I  have  never  cared  for  that  author  since. 
I  put  down  the  book  and  went  out.  Very  soon 
I  left  the  streets  and  walked  with  the  edge 
of  the  common  on  one  side,  and  on  the  other 
the  gardens  of  some  old-fashioned  houses  now 
demolished.  There  had  been  no  more  rain, 
and  there  was  no  wind.  There  was  no  sky 
visible.  The  air  thickened  into  a  downy  grey, 
motionless,  and  without  either  stars  or  forms 
of  cloud.  A  clock  tinkled  three.  There  was 
just  a  pallor  in  the  darkness.  The  dawn  was 
thinly  and  evenly  poured  into  every  inch  of  air 
between  earth  and  sky.  The  night  was  dying, 
but  instead  of  day  replacing  it,  a  neutral,  soft 
grey  was  succeeding  that  might  be  the  end  and 
dissolution  of  all;  as  if  all  things  were  melted 
down  in  this  cup  of  grey  air;  and  this  idea  was 


THE  SHIP  OF  SWALLOWS  39 

at  the  time  not  unpleasant.  Some  big  trees 
overhung  a  little  cottage  at  one  side  of  my  path. 
All  their  million  leaves  were  still. 

"  I  was  tired,  and  I  leaned  upon  the  gate. 
A  thrush  began  to  sing  very  clear.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  common  another  sang,  and  a  third 
and  perhaps  a  fourth  farther  away.  There  were 
not  so  many  as  in  May,  yet  enough  to  mingle 
into  a  strange  pleasing  little  medley.  I  knew 
that  if  I  could  have  travelled  at  that  hour  from 
there  to  my  father's  house,  there  would  be 
thrushes  all  the  way,  in  gardens,  in  roadside 
trees,  in  hedges  and  thickets. 

"  I  did  not  see  them  fly  up,  but  presently 
two  swallows  were  twittering  on  the  chimney 
of  the  cottage.  It  was  not  the  musical,  happy 
twitter  of  sunlight,  but  lower  and  perhaps  timid : 
they  did  not  yet  dare  to  launch  themselves  into 
the  air  for  the  day's  flight.  It  was  sound, 
nevertheless,  that  prevented  me  from  thinking 
of  anything  else — I  was  very  tired,  you  must 
remember.  I  did  not  notice  the  thrushes  any 
longer  whilst  listening  to  this  low  twitter.  It 
was  as  soft  and  pallid  as  the  light,  and  increased 
with  it  in  quality  very  slowly.  I  was  now 
leaning  back  and  looking  at  nothing  but  the 


40  THE  SHIP  OF  SWALLOWS 

whitening  grey  sky.  I  do  not  think  I  closed 
my  eyes,  but  I  found  myself  looking  up  at  the 
bows  of  a  huge,  dark  ship,  very  high,  and  over- 
hanging me,  and  gleaming  as  if  with  dew. 
It  rose  up  shadowy,  and  I  could  not  see  the 
bulwarks.  I  cannot  tell  how  I  knew  that  it  was 
a  ship,  though  I  could  see  portions  of  a  figure- 
head, a  woman's  breast  and  throat  and  head 
leaning  forward.  But  it  was  a  ship,  and  it 
was  just  setting  out  on  a  voyage,  as  it  seemed  to 
me,  of  peculiar  solemnity  and  significance,  like 
that  of  Columbus  or  St.  Brendan  or  Jason; 
even  the  sea  before  it — though  it  stood  upon 
the  grassy  land — was  infinite  and  mysterious. 
Clinging  about  the  ship's  sides  were  many 
swallows,  hardly  visible  against  the  gleaming 
black  timber,  but  sharply  outlined  upon  the 
white  and  gold  of  the  figure-head.  They  were 
twittering  low  with  clustering,  sweet  notes. 
There  was  awe  at  the  sea  and  the  solemn  voyage 
in  the  sound  of  their  little  voices.  There  was 
expectation  also,  and  a  sort  of  blind,  gentle  hope. 
And  I  knew  that  I  was  to  go  on  board  of  that 
ship  soon,  and  to  share  in  the  mystery  and  the 
hope.  When  I  opened  my  eyes  the  light  was 
beautiful,  though  the  sun  was  not  up  in  the 


THE  SHIP  OF  SWALLOWS  41 

gilt  sky.  The  swallows  were  still  twittering, 
but  they  were  flying  now  backwards  and  forwards 
over  the  garden  and  along  the  roadway.  The 
feeling  of  expectation  and  hope  remained,  and  a 
subdued  cheerfulness  that  must  have  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  the  tranquillity  of  those  next 
few  days  with  all  their  gloom.  ..." 


MORGAN 


IV 
MORGAN 

THE  storm  is  over;  Morgan  is  dead.  Once 
more  we  can  hear  the  brook's  noise,  which  was 
obliterated  all  night  by  the  storm  and  by  our 
thoughts.  The  air  is  clear  and  gentle  in  the 
forest  and  all  but  still,  after  the  night  of  wind 
and  of  death.  High  up  in  the  drifting  rose  of 
dawn  the  multitudes  of  tall,  slender  trees  are 
swaying  their  tips,  as  if  stirred  rather  by 
memory  of  the  tempest.  They  make  no  sound 
with  the  trembling  of  their  slender  length :  some 
will  never  sound  any  more,  for  they  lie  motionless 
and  prone  in  the  underwood,  or  hang  slanting 
among  neighbour  branches  where  they  fell  in 
last  night's  storm,  and  the  mice  may  nibble  at 
crests  that  once  wavered  among  the  stars. 
The  path  is  strewn  with  broken  branches  and 
innumerable  twigs. 

The  silence  is  so  great  that  we  can  hear,  by 
enchantment  of  the  ears,  the  storm  that  passed 

45 


46  MORGAN 

away  with  night.  The  tragic  repose  of  ruin  is 
unbroken.  One  robin  sings,  and  calls  up  the 
roars  and  tumults  that  had  had  to  cease 
utterly  before  his  small  voice  could  gain  this 
power  of  peculiar  sweetness  and  awe,  and  make 
itself  heard. 

The  mountains  and  sky,  beautiful  as  they 
are,  are  more  beautiful  because  a  cloak  of  terror 
has  been  lifted  from  them  and  left  them  free 
to  the  dark  and  silver,  and  now  rosy,  dawn.  The 
masses  of  the  battlemented  mountains  are  still 
heavy  and  sombre,  but  their  ridges  bite  sharply 
into  the  sky,  and  the  uttermost  peaks  are  born 
again.  They  are  dark  with  shadows  of  clouds 
of  a  most  lustrous  whiteness  that  hang,  round 
above  round,  like  a  white  forest,  very  far  off, 
in  the  country  of  the  sun,  and  the  edges  of  the 
rounds  are  gilded;  seen  out  of  the  clear  gloom 
of  the  wood,  this  country  is  as  a  place  to  which 
a  man  might  wholly  and  vainly  desire  to  go, 
knowing  that  he  would  be  at  rest  only  there. 
In  the  valley  between  this  forest  and  the 
mountains  the  frost  is  rosy  with  the  roses  of 
the  zenith. 

As  we  listen,  walking  the  ledge  between 
precipice  and  precipice  in  the  forest,  the  silence 


MORGAN  47 

seems  to  murmur  of  the  departed  tempest  like 
a  sea-shell,  and  we  also  remember  again  the 
sound  of  the  dark  hills  convulsed  with  a  hollow 
roaring  as  of  an  endless  explosion. 

Trees  were  caught  up  and  shaken  in  the 
furious  air  like  grasses;  branches  were  stricken 
and  struck  back,  were  ground  and  beaten  together 
and  broken.  The  sound  of  one  twig  was 
drowned  by  that  of  myriads;  the  sound  of  one 
tree  by  that  of  leagues;  and  all  were  mingled 
with  the  sound  of  the  struggle  in  the  high  spaces 
of  the  air.  Between  earth  and  sky  there  was 
nothing  but  sound  and  darkness  plunging 
confused.  Outside  the  window  branches  were 
brandished  wildly,  and  their  anger  was  the  more 
terrible  because  the  voice  of  it  could  not  be  heard 
or  distinguished  amidst  the  universal  voice. 
The  sky  itself  seemed  to  aid  the  roar.  It  was 
dark  with  the  darkness  of  black  water,  and  the 
planets  raced  over  it  among  floes  of  white  cloud ; 
dark,  menacing  clouds  flitted  on  messages  of 
darkness  across  the  white.  We  looked  out  from 
the  death-room,  having  turned  away  from  the 
helpless,  tranquil  bed  and  the  still  wife,  and 
saw  the  forest  surging  under  the  wild  moon, 
but  it  was  strange  and  no  longer  to  be  recognized 


48  MORGAN 

while  the  earth  was  heaving  and  be-nightmared 
by  the  storm.  Yes,  the  forest  is  still  under  the 
awe  of  that  hour.  That  is  why  its  clearness  is  so 
solemn,  its  silence  so  pregnant,  its  gentleness 
so  sublime.  But  not  for  that  only.  It  is  fresh 
after  the  sick  room,  calm  after  the  storm  and 
after  the  vain  conflict  with  death,  sad  because 
every  thought  in  it  leads  to  death,  and  made 
majestic  by  the  character  of  the  life  that  has 
ended  and  never  saw  this  dawn.  It  is  as  if  his 
soul  had  bereaved  the  forest  also.  The  robin's 
song  is  poured  into  the  silence  and  shivers  and 
is  chilled  by  falling  into  the  dark  cave  of 
death,  as  a  brooklet  falls  over  a  cliff  into  a 
sunless  sea. 

The  blue  smoke  rises  straight  up  as  if  nothing 
had  happened  from  the  house  of  death,  over 
there  among  the  white  fields.  As  if  nothing  had 
happened  !  But  we  have  been  walking  here  an 
hour,  and  have  come  to  see  even  in  that  smoke 
a  significant  tranquillity  as  of  a  beacon  or 
sacrifice.  It  comes  from  the  room  where  the 
wife  sits  and  looks  at  the  white  face  peering 
through  its  black  hair  like  seaweed,  and  still 
speaking  of  the  old  ecstasy,  solitude,  and  irony 
that  it  had  in  life.  A  strange  life — of  which 


MORGAN  49 

the  woman  who  shared  without  breaking  his 
solitude  can  tell  nothing,  and  would  tell  nothing 
if  she  could :  for  she  wishes  only  to  persuade  us 
that,  in  spite  of  his  extraordinary  life,  he  was 
a  good  man  and  very  good  to  her.  She  has 
become  as  silent  as  he  is  and  as  he  was.  Never- 
theless, they  say  that  twenty  years  ago,  when 
she  began  to  live  with  him  on  the  mountain,  she 
was  a  happy,  gay  woman,  the  best  singer  and 
dancer  in  the  village,  and  had  the  most  lovers, 
while  now  her  wholly  black,  small  Silurian  eyes 
have  turned  inwards  and  have  taught  her  lips 
their  mystery  and  Morgan's,  have  taught  also 
that  animal  softness  to  her  steps  and  all  her 
motions.  It  would  not  be  surprising  were  she 
to  strive  to  be  buried  along  with  him,  if  only  she 
had  not  lost  so  much  of  herself  in  losing  him. 
She  guards  him  like  a  hound  and  like  a  spirit. 
She  shadowed  and  clung  to  the  doctor  and  the 
minister,  so  that  their  offices  were  a  mockery, 
yet  they  dared  not  attempt  to  keep  her  away. 
Perhaps  she  will  go  back  to  his  Tower  and  live 
there  alone. 

If  this  winding  path  between  two  of  the 
forest  precipices  be  followed  to  that  bank  where 
the  eastern  sun  now  falls  upon  the  dazzle  of  a 

4 


50  MORGAN 

myriad  celandines,  the  top  of  Morgan's  Tower, 
or  Folly,  can  be  seen  against  a  wedge  of  sky 
among  the  hills ;  there  are  no  trees  at  that  height, 
and  it  is  distinct  and  unmistakable.  It  is  a 
slender,  square  tower  containing  three  rooms 
one  above  the  other,  and  above  these  an  un- 
covered look-out.  If  she  returns  there  she  will 
be  able  to  visit  the  upper  room  and  the  look-out 
for  the  first  time. 

Morgan  built  the  Tower  before  he  was  thirty, 
and  he  dwelt  there  nearly  thirty  years ;  whether 
out  of  cruel  constancy  to  his  first  resolution,  no 
one  knows ;  but  once  he  had  gone  there  he  never 
left  it,  except  to  die  in  the  great  house  where 
he  was  born,  and  where  he  chiefly  lived,  until 
the  building  of  the  Tower.  For  a  time  he  tried 
to  live  entirely  in  London,  devoting  himself  and 
his  riches  to  social  reform,  which  seemed  the 
only  way  to  gain  some  tranquillity  and  save 
himself  from  too  often  remembering  that  he  was 
in  hell.  He  drew  back  because  he  could  not 
understand  the  town  life,  and  it  was  absurd  to 
reform  what  he  could  not  understand.  At  first, 
and  for  several  years,  the  sight  of  the  men  and 
women  and  children  living  a  pure  and  simple 
town  life  allowed  him  no  rest.  It  was  easy  to 


MORGAN  51 

provide  them  with  things  which  seemed  to 
him  to  be  good  for  them.  But  it  was  not  easy, 
it  was  in  the  end  not  possible,  to  put  away  the 
thought  that  his  motive  was  a  false  one,  and  yet 
one  for  which  he  could  see  no  practical  alter- 
native. He  was  trying  to  alter  the  conditions 
of  other  men's  lives  because  he  could  not  have 
endured  them  himself,  because  it  would  have 
been  unpleasant  to  him  to  be  like  them  in  their 
hideous  pleasure,  hideous  suffering,  hideous  in- 
difference. He  saw  in  this  attitude  a  modern 
Pharisaism,  whose  followers  desired  not  merely 
to  be  unlike  others,  but  to  make  others  like 
themselves.  It  was  due  to  lack  of  imagina- 
tion, he  thought,  of  imagination  which  would 
enable  the  looker-on  to  see  their  lives  as  com- 
pared with  their  conscious  or  unconscious  ideals. 
Did  they,  for  example,  fall  farther  short  from 
their  ideals  than  he  from  his  ?  He  had  not  the 
imagination  to  see,  but  he  thought  perhaps  not ; 
and  he  did  see  that,  lacking  as  their  life  might 
be  in  antique  beauty  and  power,  it  yet  had  in 
it  a  profound  unconsciousness  and  dark  strength 
which  might  some  day  bring  forth  beauty — 
might  even  now  be  beautiful  to  simple  and  true 
eyes — and  had  already  given  them  a  fitness  to 


52  MORGAN 

their  place,  such  as  he  himself  was  far  from 
having  reached.  He  never  hesitated  when  it 
was  food  and  warmth  that  were  lacking,  but 
beyond  supplying  those  needs  he  could  never 
feel  sure  that  he  was  not  fancifully  interfering 
with  a  force  which  he  did  not  understand  and 
could  not  overestimate.  So  leaving  all  save 
a  little  of  his  money  to  be  used  for  giving  food 
and  warmth  to  the  hungry  and  the  cold,  he 
escaped  from  the  sublime  unintelligible  scene. 
He  went  up  into  the  Tower,  that  he  had  built 
upon  a  rock  in  his  own  mountains,  to  think 
about  life  before  he  began  to  live.  Up  there  he 
hoped  to  learn  why  it  was  that  sometimes,  in 
the  London  streets,  beneath  the  new  and  the 
multitudinous  there  was  a  simple  and  pure 
beauty,  beneath  the  turmoil  a  placidity,  beneath 
the  noise  a  silence  which  he  longed  to  reach 
and  to  drink  deeply  and  to  perpetuate,  but  in 
vain.  He  desired  to  learn  to  see  in  human  life, 
as  we  see  in  the  life  of  bees,  the  unity  which 
perhaps  some  higher  order  of  living  beings  can 
easily  see  through  the  complexity  that  confuses 
us.  He  had  set  out  to  seek  at  first  by  means  of 
science,  but  he  found  that  science  was  only  the 
modern  method  of  looking  at  the  world,  possibly 


MORGAN  53 

a  transitory  method,  and  that  too  often  it  was 
an  end  and  not  a  means.  For  a  hundred  years 
men  had  been  reading  science  and  experimenting, 
as  they  had  been  reading  history,  with  the  result 
that  they  knew — some  science  and  some  history. 
So  he  went  up  into  his  bright  Tower. 

From  there  he  looked  out  at  the  huge,  desolate 
heaves  of  the  grey  beacons.  Their  magnitude 
and  pure  form  gave  him  hours  of  great  calm. 
Here  there  was  nothing  human,  gentle,  dis- 
turbing, as  in  the  vales.  There  was  nothing 
but  the  hills  and  the  silence  that  was  God.  The 
greater  heights,  set  free  from  night  and  mist, 
looked  as  if  straight  from  the  hands  of  God, 
as  if  here  He  also  delighted  in  pure  form  and 
magnitude  that  was  worthy  of  His  love;  and 
the  huge  shadows  moving  slowly  over  the  grey 
spaces  of  winter,  the  olive  spaces  of  summer, 
were  as  His  hand.  While  Morgan  watched,  the 
dream  came,  more  and  more  often,  of  a  paradise 
to  be  established  upon  the  mountains  when  at 
last  the  sweet  winds  should  blow  across  a  clean 
world  that  knew  not  the  taint  of  life  any  more 
than  of  death,  and  then  his  thought  swept 
rejoicing  through  the  high  Gate  of  the  Winds 
that  cleft  the  hills  far  off,  where  a  shadow  ten 


54  MORGAN 

miles  long  slept  across  the  peaks,  but  left  the 
lower  wild  as  yellow  in  the  sunlight  as  corn. 
Following  his  thought  he  walked  upward  to  that 
Gate  of  the  Winds,  to  range  the  high  spaces, 
sometimes  to  sleep  there.  Or  he  lay  among  the 
gorse — he  could  have  lain  on  his  back  a  thousand 
years  hearing  the  cuckoo  among  the  gorse  and 
looking  up  at  the  blue  sky  above  the  mountains. 
Or  in  the  rain  and  wind  he  sat  against  one  of  the 
rocks  among  the  autumn  bracken  until  the  sheep 
surrounded  him,  half  visible  and  shaggy  in  the 
mist,  peering  at  him  fearlessly  as  if  they  had 
not  seen  a  man  since  the  cairns  were  heaped  on 
the  summit;  he  sat  on  and  on  in  the  mystery, 
part  of  it  but  divining  it  not,  and  in  the  end 
went  discontented  away.  The  crags  stared  at 
him  on  the  hill-top,  where  the  dark  spirits  of 
the  earth  had  crept  out  of  their  abysses  into 
the  day,  and  still  clad  in  darkness  looked  grimly 
at  him,  at  the  sky,  and  the  light.  More  and 
more  he  stayed  in  his  Tower,  since  even  in 
his  own  mountains,  as  in  the  cities  of  men,  he 
was  dismayed  by  numbers,  by  variety,  by  the 
grotesque,  by  the  thousand  gods  demanding 
idolatry  instead  of  the  One  whom  he  desired, 
Whose  hand's  shadow  he  had  seen  far  off. 


MORGAN  55 

Looking  on  a  May  midnight  at  Algol  rising  out 
of  the  mountain,  the  awe  and  the  glory  of  that 
first  step  into  the  broad  heaven  exalted  him; 
a  sound  arose  as  of  the  whole  of  time  making 
a   music   behind   him,    a   music   of   something 
passing  away  to  leave  him  alone  in  the  silence, 
as  if  he  also  were  stepping  up  into  the  blue  air — 
always  to  stumble  back.     Or  it  was  the  moon 
rising.      Then  the  sombre  ranges  to  eastward 
seemed  to  be  the  edge  of  the  earth,  and  as  the 
globe   ascended   the   world    was   emptied   and 
grieved,  having  given  birth  to  this  mighty  child ; 
he  was  left  alone,  and  the  great  white  clouds  sat 
round  about  upon  the  horizon  and  judged  him. 
For  days  he  would  lie  desolate  and  awake  and 
dream  and  stir  not.     Once  again  he  returned  to 
London  and  saw  the  city  pillared,  above  the 
shadowy  abyss  of  the  river,  on  columns  of  light  ; 
and  it  was  less  than  one  of  his  dreams.     It  was 
winter  and  he  was  resolved  to  work,  and  was 
crossing  one  of  the  bridges,  full  of  purpose  and 
thought,  going  against  the  tide  of  the  crowd. 
But  the  beauty  of  the  bridge  and  the  water 
took  hold  of  him.     It  was  a  morning  with  a 
low,  yellow  sky  of  fog.     About  the  heads  of 
the  crowd  swayed  a  few  gulls,  interlacing  so 


56  MORGAN 

that  they  could  not  be  counted,  and  they  swayed 
like  falling  snow  and  screamed.  They  brought 
light  on  their  long  wings,  as  down  below  a  great 
ship  setting  out  slowly  with  misty  masts  brought 
light  to  the  green  and  leaden  river  upon  the  foam 
at  her  bows.  And  ever  about  the  determined 
careless  faces  of  the  men  swayed  the  pale  wings 
like  wraiths  of  evil  and  good  calling,  and  calling 
to  ears  which  do  not  know  that  they  hear.  And 
they  tempted  his  brain  with  the  temptation  of 
their  beauty ;  he  went  to  and  fro  to  hear  and  see 
them  until  they  slept  and  the  crowd  had  flowed 
away.  He  thought  that  they  had  made  ready 
his  brain,  and  that  on  the  mountains  he  would 
find  fulness  of  beauty  at  last,  and  simplicity, 
so  he  went  away  and  never  returned.  There, 
too,  among  the  mountains  was  weariness,  because 
he  also  was  there. 

But  not  always  weariness.  For  was  not  the 
company  of  planet  and  star  in  the  heavens  the 
same  as  had  bent  over  prophet  and  poet  and 
philosopher  ?  By  day  a  scene  unfolded,  as  when 
the  first  man  spread  forth  his  eyes  and  saw  more 
than  his  soul  knew.  These  things  lifted  up  his 
heart,  so  that  the  voices  of  fear  and  doubt  were 
not  so  much  in  that  infinite  silence  as  little  rivers 


MORGAN  57 

in  an  unbounded  plain.  There  were  days  when 
it  seemed  to  him  the  sheer  mountains  were  the 
creation  of  his  lean,  terrible  thoughts,  and  he 
was  glad,  and  the  soft,  wooded  hills  below  and 
behind  were  the  creation  of  the  pampered 
luxurious  thoughts  he  had  left  behind  in  the 
world  of  many  men.  It  was  thus,  in  the  style  of 
the  mountains,  he  would  have  thought  and 
spoken — but  language,  except  to  genius  and 
simple  men,  was  but  a  paraphrase,  dissipating 
and  dissolving  the  forms  of  passion  and  thought. 
Then,  again,  time  lured  him  back  out  of  eternity, 
and  he  believed  that  he  longed  to  die,  as  he  lay 
and  watched  the  sky  at  sunset,  inlaid  with  swart 
forest,  and  watched  it  with  a  dull  eye  and  a 
cold  heart. 

So  much  was  known  or  could  be  guessed  from 
his  talk.  For  in  those  early  days  of  his  retreat 
he  was  not  silent  to  those  who  met  him  upon 
the  mountains,  nor  did  he  turn  aside  so  as  not 
to  encounter  them.  And  much  more  was  told 
in  the  legend  that  flourished  about  the  strange 
truth,  and  at  last  entangled  and  stifled  it, 
so  that  the  legend  was  all,  and  no  one  cared 
about  the  man.  He  was  said  to  have  buried 
money  somewhere  in  the  caves  of  the  hills.  He 


58  MORGAN 

was  said  to  worship  a  God  who  had  never 
entered  chapel  or  church.  He  was  said  to  speak 
with  raven  and  kite  and  curlew  and  fox.  He 
was  said  to  pray  for  the  end  of  man  and  the 
world.  He  was  called  atheist,  blasphemer, 
outlaw,  madman,  brute.  But  the  last  that  was 
known  of  him  was  that  one  summer  he  used  to 
come  down  night  after  night  courting  Angharad 
who  became  his  wife.  One  of  the  most  per- 
sistently reported  of  his  solitary  obsessions  was 
the  belief  in  a  race  who  had  kept  themselves 
apart  from  the  rest  of  men  though  found  in 
many  nations,  perhaps  in  all.  Some  said  the 
belief  was  from  the  Bible  and  that  this  was  the 
race  that  grew  up  alongside  the  family  of  Cain, 
the  guiltless  "  daughters  of  men  "  from  whom 
the  fratricide's  children  took  their  wives.  These 
knew  not  the  sin  or  the  knowledge  or  the  shame 
of  Adam,  Eve,  and  Cain — so  he  was  said  to 
believe — and  neither  had  they  any  souls.  They 
were  a  careless  and  godless  race,  knowing 
neither  evil  nor  good.  They  had  never  been 
cast  out  of  Eden.  Some  of  the  branches  of 
this  race  had  perished  already  by  men's  hands, 
such  as  the  fairies,  the  nymphs,  the  fauns. 
Others  had  adopted  for  safety  many  of  men's 


MORGAN  59 

ways,  and  had  become  moorland  and  mountain 
men,  living  at  peace  with  their  neighbours  and 
yet  not  recognized  as  equals.  They  were  even 
to  be  found  in  the  towns.  There  the  uncommon 
beauty  of  the  women  sometimes  led  to  unions 
of  violent  happiness  and  of  calamity,  and  now 
and  then  to  the  birth  of  a  poet  or  musician 
or  a  woman  who  could  abide  neither  with  the 
strange  race  nor  with  the  children  of  Adam. 
They  were  allowed  to  live  and  compelled  to 
surfer  for  their  power  and  beauty.  Their 
happiness — it  was  considered  by  men  to  be 
something  other  than  happiness,  lighter,  not 
earned  or  deserved,  mere  gaiety — was  the 
cause  of  envy  and  hate,  and  it  met  with  lust 
or  with  torture.  They  were  feared,  but  more 
often  despised,  because  they  retained  what  was 
charming  in  the  animal  with  the  form  of  men, 
and  because  they  lived  as  if  time  was  not,  and 
yet  could  not  be  persuaded  to  a  belief  in  a  future 
life.  Up  in  his  Tower,  Morgan  came  to  regard 
his  father  as  one  of  these,  the  man  who  had 
forsaken  his  wife  before  the  child  was  born,  and 
left  only  a  portrait  behind.  If  only  he  could 
capture  one  of  this  race,  thought  Morgan, 
and  make  her  his  wife,  he  would  be  content. 


60  MORGAN 

And  Angharad,  the  shy  and  bold  and  fierce  and 
dark  Angharad,  whose  black  eyes  radiated 
light  and  blackness  together,  was  one  of  them. 
So  he  took  her  up  to  his  Tower. 

After  that  these  things  only  were  certainly 
known:  that  she  was  unhappy;  that  when  she 
came  down  to  the  village  for  food  she  was  silent, 
would  never  betray  him  or  fail  to  return;  and 
that  he  never  came  down,  that  he  also  was  silent, 
that  he  looked  like  a  wild  man  with  unshorn 
hair.  He  was  seen  at  all  hours,  always  far 
off,  on  the  high  paths  of  the  mountains.  His 
hair  was  as  black  as  when  he  was  a  boy.  He 
was  never  known  to  have  ailed,  until  one  day, 
the  wild  wife  knocked  at  the  door  of  his  birth- 
place, and  asked  for  help  to  bring  him  where 
he  might  be  tended  as  was  necessary,  since  he 
would  have  no  one  but  her  in  the  Tower.  And  so 
he  came  and  last  night  he  died,  having  thanked 
the  Earth  for  its  strength  and  its  beauty,  for 
what  it  had  given  him  and  for  what  it  might 
have  given  had  he  been  wise,  having  prayed 
that  his  body  might  be  dutiful  to  Earth  in  the 
grave  and  bound  up  more  purely  than  it  had 
been  during  his  living  days  "  in  the  bundle 
of  life  with  the  Lord  my  God."  She  has  not 


MORGAN  61 

always  been  silent,  but  has  cried  aloud  with  a 
voice  far  wilder  than  the  curlew's  because  she 
is  left  alone  with  the  children  of  men.  And 
that  is  why  this  gentle  morning  is  so  grave  and 
so  forlorn,  and  why  Morgan's  Folly  stands  up 
so  greatly  and  notably  in  its  blackness  against 
this  dawn. 

(1913-) 


HELEN 


V 
HELEN 

TWENTY-FIVE  years  ago  the  chief  inhabitants 
of  Crowbit  lands  were  squirrels,  the  chief  crops 
hazel  nuts  and  flints.  To-day  it  is  a  forlorn 
declining  old-new  settlement,  with  the  look 
of  a  wrecked  suburb,  and  resembling  a  village 
only  in  that  it  has  one  idiot  and  one  great  house, 
every  pane  of  every  window  in  it  broken  by  the 
stones  of  happy  children.  In  another  twenty- 
five  years  the  old  condition  will  probably  be 
restored.  It  is  the  highest  land  on  a  high  plateau 
and  the  plough  has  never  been  over  it.  The 
greater  part  is  treeless,  but  the  slopes  bear 
copses  of  poor  oaks  and  in  the  bottoms  are 
families  of  ancient  beeches  and  enough  grass 
for  many  rabbits.  One  straight  main  road 
crosses  it  now  as  it  has  long  done,  but  for  some 
reason  it  is  avoided,  and  in  spite  of  an  old  man 
always  bent  over  it  the  weeds  and  grass  grow 
apace.  The  other  roads  are,  and  were,  broad 

65  5 


66  HELEN 

green  lanes  deeply  fringed  with  untended  hazel 
and  bracken  and  the  purple  and  gold  flowers 
that  love  to  be  among  bracken.  Even  twenty- 
five  years  ago  no  tract  of  southern  England 
was  richer  in  green  lanes  almost  without  rut  or 
footprint.  Perhaps  a  gipsy  came  one  day, 
but  next  day  was  not  there.  One  farmhouse 
there  was,  and  the  only  reason  for  that  seemed 
to  be  to  avoid  the  scandal  of  so  large  a  district 
in  this  prosperous  country  being  without  one. 
Every  year  or  two  it  was  partly  painted  and  the 
garden  half  weeded,  lest  the  predestinate  tenant 
should  see  it  and  pass  by:  once  or  twice  there 
were  tenants — not  farmers,  but  a  poor  middle- 
class  family  with  an  indigent  mother  or  sister, 
or  children  too  young  for  school — for  not  more 
than  six  months.  The  great  house  was  at  the 
very  edge  of  Crowbit,  turning  its  back  on  the 
misty  plateau,  its  face  towards  a  better  land  of 
dairy  and  corn  in  comfortable  proportions. 
It  was  a  square  grey  house  among  oaks,  dull 
and  substantial,  a  perfect  breeding-place  for 
men  about  town,  like  the  Salanders.  They 
could  not  live  there  because  the  consumption 
of  cigarettes  and  spirits  which  it  enforced  gave 
it  a  reputation  for  unhealthiness  and  costliness; 


HELEN  67 

but  they  had  been  happy  there  as  children  and 
they  liked  to  come  down  in  the  autumn  for 
pheasants,  in  the  summer  for  trout — not  in 
their  own  land,  which  had  not  one  flash  of 
running  water.  The  Salanders  had  some  reason 
for  expecting  trouble:  in  fact,  the  only  reason 
against  it  was  that  it  had  long  been  delayed. 
The  only  way  out  was  work — and  that  was 
impossible — until  one  day  a  low,  but  amusing 
friend  of  George  Salander  offered  another.  The 
lord  of  the  manor  had  just  landed  a  game  trout 
and  held  it  in  his  hand  with  a  sunny  hard  smile, 
saying  in  compliment  "  Jolly  plucky  little 
beggar,"  before  putting  his  thumbnail  deep 
into  the  spine  of  a  creature  which,  he  knew, 
had  done  its  best  to  give  him  pleasure.  At 
Johnson's  proposal  he  smiled  in  the  same  way. 

Within  a  year  the  plan  was  a  success.  The 
healthy  situation  and  lovely  scenery  of  Crowbit, 
the  fitness  for  poultry  and  small  fruit  farms, 
and  the  convenience  of  a  five-mile-distant 
railway  station  upon  a  branch  line,  were  en- 
thusiastically advertised  by  Johnson,  the  railway 
company,  the  Press,  and  in  a  quiet  way,  by 
Salander  himself.  The  newcomers  were  old 
and  middle-aged  men  who  had  saved  a  little 


68  HELEN 

money  in  shops,  young  men  at  their  first  venture 
and  men  no  longer  young  at  their  last.  They 
enclosed  parallelograms  of  an  acre  or  half-an- 
acre  with  wire-netting;  they  planted  trees 
which  died;  they  dug  up  plots  of  innocent  grass 
where  forthwith  exulted  the  hardiest  and  most 
offensive  weeds;  they  erected  low  buildings  of 
corrugated  iron,  white  framed  windows  and  doors 
and  many  lace  curtains.  The  old  farmhouse 
received  a  corrugated  iron  roof  from  ridge  to 
eaves  over  its  thatch  and  the  name  of  "  The 
Laurels  ";  and  inside  or  outside  of  it  could  be 
heard  a  cheerful  baritone  voice  singing  "  The 
Boys  of  the  Old  Brigade."  Many  lengths  of 
the  green  lanes  were  furrowed  hither  and 
thither  by  heavy  wheels,  and  the  mud  well 
mixed  with  broken  glass,  crockery  and  coloured 
paper.  Gaps  were  torn  in  the  hedges  for  gate- 
ways and  to  allow  a  view  when  the  mist  cleared. 
Everywhere,  the  sound  of  hammers  on  deal 
and  corrugated  iron.  Chickens  made  paths  in 
all  directions.  Faces  of  extreme  cheerfulness 
or  extreme  anxiety  went  up  and  down  riding 
bicycles  or  eagerly  pushing  them. 

Salander  had  ready-money.     He  came  down 
to  see  the  place  and  told  Johnson,  "  It  is  like  a 


HELEN  69 

damned  circus,  only  it  won't  go  away."     He 
was  genuinely  enraged  with  Johnson. 

Some  of  the  people  did,  nevertheless,  go  away 
before  long.  Some  who  had  hoped  they  would 
be  isolated  were  wedged  in  a  dense  row:  others 
found  it  lonely  in  a  lane  with  no  sound  but  their 
own  chickens:  some  longed  for  the  town,  some 
for  the  country.  But  enough  had  been  sold 
to  overcome  Salander's  distaste;  he  was  able 
to  send  his  idle  eldest  son,  Aylwin  Salander, 
to  a  mining  school,  and  later  on  to  Canada. 

Some  of  the  invaders  stayed.  The  Browns,  for 
example,  kept  to  their  little  red  house,  and  in  ten 
years'  time  they  alone  remained  of  the  original 
settlers.  The  slope  up  to  their  front  door  and 
its  white  wooden  steps  was  carefully  mown  and 
broken  into  beds  of  lilac  and  laburnum,  roses, 
sunflowers  and  nasturtiums  in  their  seasons. 
Of  the  half-dozen  spruce  trees  only  one  had  lived 
through  the  first  summer,  and  this  was  the 
nearest  to  the  house.  It  was  absurdly  near,  as 
Mrs.  Brown  pointed  out;  it  grew  apace  and  its 
branches  brushed  the  wall  of  the  house.  On 
the  night  when  her  first  child  was  born,  and  on 
other  nights  she  could  then  remember,  she  was 
tormented  by  this  tree  rasping  the  corrugated 


70  HELEN 

iron  in  the  rainy  wind.  "  You  devil,"  she  said 
to  it  when  first  she  stepped  out  with  little  Helen 
in  her  arms;  but  she  let  it  remain,  and  it  con- 
tinued to  flourish  while  its  companions  rotted 
very  slowly  in  the  ground.  Helen  flourished 
like  the  tree,  which  she  watered  all  through  the 
summers;  and  Salander,  passing  by  a  shed  one 
day  where  she  was  playing,  threw  away  his 
cigar  to  have  a  good  look  at  her.  Outside,  it 
was  a  day  of  glory  in  the  sky  and  of  harvest 
peace  and  abundance  on  the  earth:  inside,  the 
child  was  in  deep  shadow  and  looked  down  at 
him  with  eyes  bright,  glowing  cheeks,  rosy  lips, 
and  teeth  glistening,  all  the  more  lovely  for  the 
shadow  which  her  face  overcame  and  seemed  to 
illuminate  like  a  lantern.  He  tried  to  talk  to 
her,  and  she  said  "  Yes  "  or  "  No  "  or  sometimes 
nothing.  He  remembered  as  he  looked  at  her 
an  old  countrywoman's  remark  to  him  when 
he  was  a  boy:  "  Birds  have  great  wisdom;  not 
one  of  them  except  the  cuckoo  has  said  a  thing 
men  can  understand,  not  since  the  Creation." 
Before  he  left  she  reminded  him  still  more  of  a 
bird,  for  she  suddenly  put  on  a  face  like  an  owl 
which  was  evidently  a  favourite  accomplishment. 
This  she  maintained  for  about  half  a  minute 


HELEN  71 

and  then  broke  into  laughter,  under  cover  of 
which  Salander  departed.  He  did  not  profess 
to  know  anything  about  women  until  they  were 
seventeen  or  so,  and  none  that  he  had  ever 
troubled  with  was  like  a  bird;  yet  his  compla- 
cency was  hurt  by  the  bird-like  Helen.  She 
grew  more  and  more  beautiful,  to  the  confusion 
of  old  and  afterwards  of  young  Salander.  She 
had  a  peering  face,  narrowing  down  to  the  chin 
and  sharpened  forwards — a  face  that  asked 
many  questions  no  man  could  answer.  She  had 
olive  eyes,  long  dark  lashes,  and  dark  eyebrows, 
a  rather  more  than  usually  projecting  mouth 
which  seemed  to  make  the  whole  world  wreathe 
in  a  smile  with  it;  her  skin  was  nothing  rarer 
than  damask;  her  pale  yellow  hair  was  open 
to  the  imputation  of  tow,  inclined  to  stick 
together  in  tails,  and  only  just  rippled  out  of 
the  straight,  yet  radiant  and  original  whether  it 
swished  about  her  in  running  or  was  held  across 
her  mouth  for  her  to  bite  while  she  spoke ;  perhaps 
only  her  ears  could  be  called  perfect,  being  of  a 
unique  simple  curve  up,  round  and  down,  and 
within  of  a  subtlety  suggesting  with  even  a 
shade  of  painfulness  in  its  subtlety,  the  hidden 
brain  which  it  furnished  with  the  sounds  of  the 


72  HELEN 

world.  Many  other  women  had  some  of  these 
elements  in  more  perfection,  not  a  few  had  them 
all:  there  was  never  one  who  combined  them 
in  these  proportions  to  this  result,  which  was  so 
much  more  than  the  sum  of  them  all  that  one 
like  old  Salander  could  pretend  to  see  it  as  such 
only  when  there  was  a  Crowbit  mist  moaning 
and  shaking  the  spruce  against  Helen's  home 
and  the  rain  drummed  on  corrugated  iron,  and 
he  felt  in  his  teeth  that  he  was  old.  He  was, 
in  fact,  deeply  impressed  by  her  beauty.  It 
was  the  most  surprising  fact  within  his  knowledge 
that  this  brand-new,  rasping  new,  never-to-be- 
old,  settlement  and  two  plain  parents  could 
produce  one  like  Helen,  could  nourish  and 
preserve  her  year  after  year,  while  she  ran  up 
and  down  the  deep-rutted  lanes  and  over  the 
scratched  flinty  fields  among  the  chickens, 
climbed  his  great  beeches  in  the  bottoms  still 
mainly  belonging  to  the  squirrels,  and  later  on 
raced  about  on  a  rattling  bicycle  with  a  milk 
can  or  a  parcel  from  the  station.  She  wore 
bad  clothes,  always  torn,  often  dirty — but  so 
much  the  better !  they  gave  her  laughing 
loveliness  another  triumph.  It  was  always 
laughing,  though  not  perhaps  for  what  Salander 


HELEN  73 

or  most  others  would  have  called  happiness. 
Her  mother  was  angry  with  her  for  laughing 
at  nothing:  she  did  not  know,  she  believed  the 
child  did  not  know,  why  this  laughter;  and  she 
accused  her  of  pretence,  the  more  certainly 
because  the  gravity  of  her  eyes  was  never 
disturbed  by  it.  At  school  she  learned  only 
to  fear  school-teachers  and  lofty  rooms  with 
shiny  pictures.  All  her  wisdom  was  in  the 
quickness  of  her  feet  and  the  light  of  her  eyes. 
Some  thought  her  daft. 

When  Helen  was  seventeen,  old  Salander  died 
suddenly.  Aylwin  had  returned  from  Canada, 
something  worn  by  indolence,  but  still  handsome. 
He  was  a  perfect  Salander  externally — had  a 
neat  head,  close-cropped  mouse-coloured  hair, 
regular  features  and  excellent  teeth,  but  also  a 
melancholy  and  rash  futility  that  .grinned  at 
the  masterly  military  exterior.  He  wooed 
Helen  outright.  She  was  now  a  woman  of  a 
great  new  beauty,  neither  of  the  town  nor  of 
the  country.  She  was  the  offspring  of  the 
union  or  conflict  between  country  and  town, 
the  solitude  of  Crowbit  and  the  corrugated  iron. 
The  union  showed  itself  in  the  astonishing 
blend  of  the  wild  and  the  delicate  in  her  beauty, 


74  HELEN 

the  conflict,  in  her  uselessness — she  could  do 
nothing  with  her  hands  or  her  head,  she  could 
not  even  sing,  though  her  voice  was  worthy  of 
her — in  what  the  neighbours  called  her  stupidity 
or  imbecility.  She  was  like  a  deer  enchanted 
into  a  woman's  form,  nothing  like  a  deer  except 
sometimes  in  her  gesture  of  suspicion,  and  yet  a 
deer  underneath.  Salander  used  to  come  down 
to  the  "  King's  Head  "  at  Newton  Salander  for 
several  days  at  a  time  and  make  opportunities 
to  see  the  wandering  Helen  instead  of  fishing. 
At  some  visits  he  sat  down  and  drank  peaceably 
for  hours,  to  fend  off  the  sad  looks  of  Crowbit  ; 
at  others,  he  would  not  touch  alcohol,  for  the 
same  reason;  in  both  moods  he  would  talk  of 
fitting  out  two  rooms  at  the  manor-house,  of 
keeping  fowls  and  Arcadianising.  It  was  pretty 
well  known  why  he  came,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Brown,  though  not  yet  consulted,  saw  no  reason 
to  be  sorry,  since  it  might  do  them  good  and 
would,  at  least,  take  the  solitary  and  useless 
girl  off  their  hands.  The  neighbours  blamed 
sometimes  them  and  sometimes  Helen,  when  they 
knew  her  entire  liberty  with  Salander.  They 
accused  the  Browns  of  thrusting  her  upon  him. 
His  friends,  on  the  other  hand,  thought  it 


HELEN  75 

would  be  quite  unnecessary  for  him  to  marry 
her. 

Helen  herself  seemed  to  take  no  notice  of  him, 
to  be  the  only  person  who  could  not  see  what 
was  happening.  Then  suddenly  it  was  known 
that  she  and  Salander  were  to  be  married. 
It  was  said  that  he  had  lain  in  wait  for  her  in 
one  of  her  secret  haunts,  and  that  there  for  some 
reason  she  had  struck  him  so  that  he  fell  and 
was  stunned.  It  was  said  that  his  helpless  body 
had  raised  her  pity;  she  had  tended  and  kissed 
him  back  to  consciousness.  After  this  he  could 
apparently  do  anything  with  her,  except  per- 
suade her  to  leave  "  Fair  View  "  where  she  was 
born.  She  used  to  compare  herself  to  the 
solitary  spruce-tree.  She  had  never  lived  any- 
where else,  and  she  never  could.  But  as  soon 
as  possible  Salander  meant  to  take  her  right 
away  from  it. 

After  the  wedding  Helen  was  gay  and  gentle 
with  all,  until  she  came  to  the  gates  of  the 
manor-house.  She  trembled  and  leaned  heavily 
on  her  husband's  arm,  and  he  was  all  but  carry- 
ing her  as  they  approached  the  door.  At  the 
threshold  she  was  powerless;  he  lifted  her  in, 
helpless  and  drooping  as  a  sheaf  of  barley. 


76  HELEN 

She  is  now  what  all  would  call  mad.  She  fell 
into  silence,  untranslatable  sounds,  and  her  old 
laughter.  She  refused  to  sleep  anywhere  except 
in  her  birthplace,  and  as  she  was  not  admitted 
there  she  stayed  out  of  doors.  She  thought  that 
she  was  a  spruce  fir,  and  spreading  out  her  arms 
with  a  grave  look  she  shivered  and  made  a  sound 
like  the  wind  in  fir  needles  without  opening  her 
lips,  and  having  gradually  become  silent  she 
burst  out  into  laughter  and  turned  away. 
Salander  was  much  condoled  with  by  her 
parents,  and  in  his  watchfulness  he  was  often 
out  all  night,  following  her  until  he  was  tired 
and  she  disappeared.  His  fowls  arrived,  but 
he  made  a  present  of  them  to  his  father-in-law. 
In  a  few  weeks  he  departed,  leaving  the  key 
in  the  door  with  a  hope  that  she  might  return. 
He  comes  down  now  and  then  to  see  if  she  is 
changed,  but  when  he  appears  »she  runs  fast 
away.  They  have  relented  at  "  Fair  View," 
and  she  sleeps  there  once  more.  She  works  hard 
in  the  garden  and  among  the  fowls,  and  goes 
on  errands.  If  the  little  boys  of  Crowbit  stop 
her  and  say,  "  Helen,  what  is  that  noise  ?"  she 
stands  still,  slowly  extends  her  arms  and  moans 
like  a  fir-tree,  and  the  boys  grin  at  one  another 


HELEN  77 

until  out  comes  her  wild  laughter,  and  they 
grin  no  more.  The  people  at  Crowbit  are  not 
proud  of  her,  though  she  is  still  as  beautiful  as 
the  dawn ;  but  at  the  next  village  an  old  woman 
says  it  is  good  to  have  one  idiot  in  a  place,  and 
very  lucky — "  It  keeps  things  quiet,"  she  says. 

(1911.) 


ISOUD 


VI 
ISOUD 

THE  other  day  a  thick  snowfall  whitened  the 
hills.  Winter  it  is  not  yet  nevertheless ;  a  black 
insistence  here  and  there  of  hillock  or  jag  was 
left  to  remind  us  of  the  living  form;  though 
tucked  down,  stiff  and  angular  like  a  corpse,  in  its 
shroud,  the  earth  still  lived.  It  was  buried,  yet 
buried  alive;  and  it  needed  only  a  tumultuous 
enthusiasm  of  sunshine  to  awaken  what  had 
seemed  the  lifeless  angles  of  knees  and  chin  to 
life.  That  enthusiasm  came.  First  an  icy  fog 
overclouded  the  pools,  garrisoned  by  melancholy 
lime  and  elm,  mostly  bare,  and  by  gracious 
poplars  hardly  wasted  or  discoloured,  over  and 
among  which  floated  three  swallows  continually. 
But  the  light  invaded  and  barred  the  beech- 
trunks  with  the  shadow  of  their  own  boughs. 
Then  rapidly  the  splendour  drew  off,  only  to  be 
followed  by  a  sweet-tempered  afternoon  which 
later  on  was  visited  by  notable  light,  diluted  and 

81  6 


82  ISOUD 

invisible,  so  homely  and  so  companionable,  as 
though  from  a  fountain  closer  than  the  sun, 
from  something  on  earth,  something  not  far  off; 
a  light  under  which  the  very  asphalt  of  aching 
streets  will  receive  the  shadows  of  tree  and  spire. 
All  the  grim  jewelleries  of  the  hoar  frost  were 
gone.  Far  off  a  sudden  fusillade  occasionally 
surprised  the  air.  Then  the  hour  between  light 
and  darkness  was  one  of  the  holy  eves  of 
autumn.  .  .  .  With  sunset  a  vigorous  gale 
took  flight  from  the  north,  and  overthrew  the 
barriers  of  day  and  uplifted  the  heavens  a  league 
higher,  until  the  storm  came,  preceded,  while 
it  was  yet  light,  by  a  wonderful  stir  and  freshness 
of  the  air  between  those  heaving  bergs  of  cloud 
immersed  and  reluctantly  smouldering  in  blue 
sky  water  east  and  west ;  and  this  was  the  hour 
for  the  unexpected,  the  marvellous,  for  the 
extending  of  Nature's  bounds.  A  moment  or 
two  of  sumptuous  calm — as  if  one  slept  upon 
pillows  of  wild-hop  blossom;  the  waterfall's 
breath  ceased  to  tease  the  ivy  foliage,  and  the 
storm  whipped  it  instead.  Thunder  came,  and 
a  wind  that  plucked  out  the  poplar  boughs  as 
if  they  had  been  hen  feathers.  That,  too,  gave 
way  with  rumblings  of  retreat:  and  the  rain 


ISOUD  83 

was  globed  prettily  on  the  silver  underside  of  a 
leaf  that  lay  stiff.  So  the  latest  memory  of  that 
day  was  powerful  and  sweet.  We  saw  the 
mighty  motion  of  the  steadfast  tide  as  it 
swerved,  swerved  slowly  in  echelon  at  the 
broadest  point  of  the  river,  where  two  streams, 
both  voices  of  the  sea,  though  querulous,  enter 
it;  we  saw  how  the  water,  all  red  in  the  re- 
current ardours  of  sunset,  was  burdened  with 
foam ;  how  the  low  grassy  shore  hissed,  and  the 
big,  tawny  moon  leant  at  watch — as  if  with  a 
pensive  arm — on  the  hills,  quite  near.  That  night 
also  passed,  the  perfect  silence  of  it  expounded 
by  the  unaccountable  murmur  as  of  gigantic 
pinions  beating  slowly  at  the  horizon,  and  the 
black  bars  of  midnight  weighing  heavily  upon 
the  brow,  until  the  white  moon  was  deluged  by 
fiery  clouds  of  dawn.  Importunate  sunlight 
then  called  us  forth  early  to  a  long  day  of 
breezes  that  drove  the  lark  giddily  backward 
in  its  song.  With  an  imposing  promise  of  the 
far  away  spring,  a  great  poplar,  in  a  spurt  of 
delicate  rain,  rose  up  in  magically  aggrandized 
magnificence  into  a  lustrous  pane  of  sky.  But 
most  impressively  the  memory  of  that  day  is 
inseparable  from  a  reading  of  Malory's  narrative 


84  ISOUD 

of  the  knight  Kehydius.  Out  of  doors  I  had 
read  this  story,  which  is  an  unimportant 
appanage  of  Tristram's  tragedy,  and  told  frag- 
mentarily  over  many  pages  after  Malory's  way 
— stealing  like  a  meek  rosy  thread  of  silk  through 
the  purple  and  sea-green  pomps  of  a  sombre 
embroidered  imagery.  The  open  air  endowed 
it  with  what  it  lacked:  not  that  it  was  without 
art,  though  it  is  not  purely  art  that  gilds  such 
a  history  as  Elaine's;  he  speaks,  as  it  were,  for, 
he  is  the  melodious  mouth  for,  Nature  herself. 
Indeed,  of  all  books  none  is  so  fitted  for  such 
reading.  One  can  fancy  it  the  work  of  an  old 
woodlander  who  wrote  in  his  splashed  hunting 
dress.  His  stories  have  all  the  carelessness  and 
haste  of  stories  told  by  eager  riders  in  a  joyful 
chase;  that  is  how  he  came  to  add  fondly  to  his 
picture  of  a  lion-guarded  castle  in  the  tale  of 
Galahad — "and  the  moone  shone  clere";  and 
Kehydius  is  one  of  those  constellated  knights 
whom  he  just  names,  with  sympathy,  it  is  true, 
but  no  more.  So  after  a  dreamy  reading  of  the 
book  were  my  own  thoughts  of  Kehydius  and 
Malory's  ejaculations  combined  in  one  history 
that  came  to  me  all  day  in  intermitted  harmony. 
The  sound  thereof  was  as  of  distant  music 


ISOUD  85 

coming  and  going  with  the  pulse  of  the  breeze, 
or  like  light 

That  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes  blown 
Through  verdurous  glooms  and  winding  mossy  ways. 

One  thought  of  the  beginning  of  the  life  of 
Kehydius  in  some  towered  town ;  of  his  melan- 
choly youth,  full  of  hopes  for  a  future  that  will 
never  be,  and  regrets  for  a  past  that  has  never 
been.  And  one  day  Tristram  and  Lamorak 
"  took  Kehydius  at  the  fosters  hous  and  soo 
they  rode  with  hym  to  the  ship." 

Underfoot  one  of  the  clear  brown  Gwili's  little 
tributaries  all  its  course  runs  beneath  close  hazel 
and  thorn  bushes,  till  it  is  unfettered  into  spark- 
ling liberty  over  tumbled  rocks,  in  a  deep  bed 
whose  sides  were  in  September  the  home  of  the 
finest  ivy,  of  all  plants  indeed,  refined  to  a 
crepuscular  paleness  and  frailness ;  there,  too,  or 
close  at  hand,  was  the  hot  pimpernel,  hot  as  if 
it  had  burnt  like  a  tongue  of  volcanic  flame  from 
the  scorched  pebbles. 

There  was  Kehydius  marching  with  the  great 
knights.  Surely  he  will  not  long  love  his  life  ! 
He  is  to  love  the  highest  and  loveliest  in  all  the 
world.  That  soul  was  never  wholly  sincere 


86  ISOUD 

except  with  Nature;  and  perhaps  his  eyes  had 
never  opened  with  the  fearlessness,  the  innocence, 
the  eternal  surprise  of  childhood — save  to  the 
sky  !  There  would  be  days  when  the  despotic 
splendour  of  the  sunlight  never  permitted  him 
to  rest,  but  only  to  gaze  and  dream.  And  "  the 
fyrst  time  that  ever  syre  Kehydius  sawe  la  Beale 
Isoud  he  was  soo  enamoured  upon  her  that  for 
very  pure  love  he  myghte  never  withdrawe 
it.  ...  And  at  the  last  as  ye  shall  here  or  the 
book  be  ended  syre  Kehydius  dyed  for  love 
of  la  Beale  Isoud." 

And  Autumn  came.  Fine  pale  ferns  nodded 
beside  the  path;  the  red  campions  blossomed 
with  smaller  and  smaller  flowers;  children 
harvested  the  blackberries  from  sprays  of  crisp 
green  arched  over  serpentining  red  stems;  and 
there  were  all  the  pleasures  of  a  day  abroad— 
the  stepping-stones  in  lustrous  brown  water! 
the  fear  of  cattle  too  indolent  to  raise  a  horn ! 
and  the  damp,  cool  crystal  of  the  air  before 
evening  below  the  oaks  and  hazels  of  a  lane  ! 

Kehydius  has  written  to  Isoud,  and  drawn 
replies  from  that  stately  queen.  The  events 
following  have  all  the  sorrowful  comedy  of  real 
life:  Tristram  maddens  with  jealousy  at  Isoud's 


ISOUD  87 

condescending  response  to  Kehydius,  who  leaps 
from  the  scene,  but  afterward  goes  on  affectionate 
search  for  his  rival ;  and  not  alone ;  at  least  he  is 
pursued  by  one  that  loved  him  hopelessly,  a 
maiden  named  Summer  Night,  whose  very  step 
was  desirable  and  full  of  love  and  always  tender 
as  if  she  feared  to  break  the  slumber  of  one 
beloved  and  sick.  From  her  Kehydius  learned 
to  play  upon  Tristram's  harp  so  faultlessly  that 
they  drew  him  with  tears  to  their  side,  only  to 
depart,  however,  with  "  The  harp  is  the  harp 
of  Tristram,  but  the  harper  .  .  . !"  But 
Kehydius  "  saide  that  he  wolde  goo  in  to 
Bretayn." 

Evening  is  at  hand.  Long,  delicate  amber 
ribands  of  sunshine  lie  across  the  page  in  a  quiet 
sunset  of  misty  gold,  whose  beams  glance  night 
by  night  off  a  neighbouring  window  to  this  spot, 
but  soon,  as  now,  escape  along  with  the  memor- 
able splendour  upon  the  book. 

Night  closes  the  story  appropriately.  Kehy- 
dius has  returned  and  after  curing  Tristram 
with  the  herbs  of  the  love-wise  Summer  Night 
has  gone  forth,  neglectful  of  her,  with  the  knight. 
Again  they  quarrelled  over  Isoud.  One  night, 
therefore,  Kehydius  left  Tristram  asleep,  harp 


88  ISOUD 

at  side,  and  rode  with  intent  never  to  return.  .  .  . 
Let  us  not  be  content  with  Malory's  allusion  to 
"  the  noble  knyghte  syre  Kehydius  that  dyed 
for  the  love  of  la  Beale  Isoud." 

To  what  weird  banquet  are  those  gloomy 
clouds  journeying  amid  the  firs,  with  bat  and 
with  crow,  in  the  fervid  but  lightless  west  ? 
From  what  weird  banquet  or  witching  tryst  in 
the  dead  east  are  they  returning  like  sullen 
guests  ?  The  year  has  "  passed  into  many 
yesterdays,"  and  now  the  arborets  of  brier  and 
thorn  that  stagger  up  and  down  the  acclivities 
moan  in  the  invectives  of  the  wind. 

Never  had  Sir  Kehydius  joy  such  as  on  that 
night;  there  was  joy  even  in  the  thought  that 
cropped  up  among  his  memories,  the  thought 

that 

Grief  is  to  bliss  a  blindfold  sister  sweet. 

Suddenly  then  came  the  fear  that  Tristram 
might  suffer  harm  in  his  sleep.  He  rode  hot- 
foot back,  therefore,  and  sat  to  watch  until  day; 
when  he  bethought  him  of  the  harp;  he  would 
play  once  again — a  stanza  only,  perhaps  of 
the  glade 

Where  light  and  white  the  wood  nymphs  go. 


ISOUD  89 

Those  tones  were  his  own  obsequies.  .  .  .  His 
fingers  and  voice  ran  through  all  the  subtleties 
of  delight  and  love.  .  .  .  The  light  of  a  sunken 
moon  was  fading  by  delicate  diminuendo  among 
the  woods.  .  .  .  Even  Tristram  wondered  and 
admired.  Finally,  the  recollection  of  Isoud  ! 
The  tristful  majesty  of  her  praises  could  not 
restrain  his  hand,  the  hand  that  presently  drove 
a  sword,  through  the  misty  quivering  chords, 
into  the  heart  of  Kehydius.  Summer  Night 
was  close  by.  She  took  up  the  corpse,  and  her- 
self scooped  a  grave  in  the  forest's  heart  where 
dew  is  dried  not  even  at  noon.  But  when  the 
grave  was  deep,  she  could  not  endure  to  loosen 
those  fair  limbs  into  the  pit;  so,  descending 
herself  and  drawing  his  body  over  the  edge, 
she,  crushed  by  the  weight  and  effortless  with 
fright  and  grief,  died;  and  no  robins  covered  the 
sorrow  of  those  two;  only  when  Tristram  and 
Isoud  passed  there  in  the  chase,  they  found  that 
the  hair  of  Summer  Night  had  expanded  over 
all  as  if  in  pity ;  and  Isoud,  with  her  elegiac  voice, 
praised  the  hair. 


A  MAN  OF  THE  WOODS 


VII 
A  MAN  OF  THE  WOODS 

LONG  years  of  soldiering,  tilling  the  soil,  game- 
keeping,  and  poaching  o'  nights,  moulded  our 
man  of  the  woods  to  what  we  find  him  now  in  a 
hale,  iron  old  age.  In  the  education  of  such  a 
man,  not  one  of  these  elements  could  have  been 
spared;  all  will  be  found  deeply  essential. 
Without  the  drill  and  exposure  of  a  soldier's 
life,  his  back  would  never  have  been  so  straight, 
nor  his  step  so  true,  nor  his  eye  so  instantly 
correct;  and  it  again  gave  him  an  insight,  also, 
into  phases  of  life  on  which  he  will  begin  to 
dwell,  in  a  chattering  senility,  when  sermons 
are  uttered  more  and  more  frequently  from  the 
grandfather's  chair.  Tilling  the  soil  was  slow, 
certain  preparation  for  the  interchangeable  crafts 
of  poacher  and  gamekeeper.  It  was  then  that, 
in  the  lengthened  dinner-hours  under  the  summer 
sky,  he  could  glean  unutterable  lore  of  the  hare 
and  his  many  ways.  Partridges  nested  in  his 

93 


94  A  MAN  OF  THE  WOODS 

master's  fields,  and  it  needed  no  more  than 
ordinary  care  to  mark  their  lines  of  travel,  their 
hours  of  home-coming  and  outgoing,  and  their 
favoured  corners  when  the  coveys  packed  in  the 
time  of  the  ripening  hazel-nuts.  At  odd  hours, 
in  his  tiny  youth,  opportunities  were  his  to 
learn  something  of  the  economies  of  the  smaller 
wild  things  of  the  hedgerows  and  leas;  the 
thronging  of  strange  racketing  birds  to  the  red 
October  hips — these,  the  fieldfares,  he  called 
"  felts  " — and  the  advent  of  the  nightingale  in 
earliest  April  to  the  spinney  or  the  hazel-nook. 
He  had  been  something  of  a  favourite  with  the 
hunt;  received  valuable  commissions  which 
kept  him  in  silent  places,  where  the  only  stir  was 
the  "rattle"  which  he  whirled  to  turn  the 
followed  fox  from  a  known  retreat  of  his  that 
could  not  be  blocked.  There,  with  occasions 
innumerable,  answered  by  desires,  he  learned 
much,  and  reasoned,  too,  in  his  unguided  way, 
and  developed  a  tenderness  towards  wild 
creatures  which  was  often  in  contrast  with 
freaks  of  heedlessness.  This  tenderness  stays 
with  him  now ;  he  remembers  the  caged  dormouse 
clicking  for  food  over  him,  even  in  his  nightly 
armchair.  Keepering  and  poaching  rank  to- 


A  MAN  OF  THE  WOODS  95 

gether  in  his  education.  Both  gave  him  in- 
tricacies of  knowledge  in  woodcraft  that  are 
impossible  otherwise.  Had  he  been  a  worse 
keeper,  he  would  never  have  made  so  good  a 
poacher;  a  worse  poacher,  and  he  were  a  useless 
keeper.  Education,  and  "  better  manners/'  he 
will  say,  have  been  the  means  of  reducing  the 
frequency  of  poaching,  or,  at  least  of  the  loud, 
bold  poaching  which  he  knew — desperate  attacks 
of  desperate  men.  Many  such  he  recalls  when 
the  price  of  bread  was  high  and  wages  low ;  cruel 
times  for  his  class,  he  moans  yet.  Then  a  certain 
moodiness  took  hold  of  the  cottagers;  a  dull, 
stubborn  carelessness;  and  murderous  affrays 
were  the  results.  Such  times  have  gone,  he 
thinks,  like  the  coast-war  with  smugglers.  It 
is  a  memory  of  his  that  banded  labourers  in  the 
cold  winters  of  the  years  of  the  Crimea  attacked 
the  game  woods.  The  raids  called  for  unusual 
preparations  against  their  success,  and  keepers 
sat  or  stood  up  in  the  covers  all  night  in  silence 
behind  suspended  sacks  as  protection  from  the 
wind.  Nights  like  these  ruined  and  bowed  many 
good  men. 

Picture  him  in  his  woods;  for  he  has  been  a 
man  of  the  woods  all  his  life,  and  is  so  yet. 


96  A  MAN  OF  THE  WOODS 

Wild,  full  locks  whiten  his  brown  neck  and 
cheeks;  a  beard  graces  his  chin.  His  eyes  have 
the  cold  pale-blue  brightness,  suggestive  of  weak 
or  short  sight,  which  is  almost  always  noticeable 
in  men  whose  eyes  are  much  used  out  of  doors. 
The  power  of  these  eyes  is  genius,  or  instinct; 
their  characteristic  is  that  they  realize  everything 
in  their  sweep,  noting  details  which  ordinary 
vision  would  not  appreciate  or  be  conscious  of. 
His  gaze  is  inevitably  and  surely  arrested  by 
whatsoever  moves  within  his  ken ;  he  knows  that 
the  rush-tufts  dappling  the  hills  are  not  the  hares 
he  seeks,  but  he  also  knows  that  they  are  rush- 
tufts;  nothing  can  escape  him,  and  he  makes 
certain,  by  an  unconscious  effort,  of  all  he  sees. 
Yet  his  glance  is  as  rapid  as  possible;  taking  in, 
using  or  rejecting,  what  he  sees,  is  the  work  of 
an  inappreciable  moment  of  time.  He  is  little 
above  the  middle  height,  but  his  straight  build 
gives  him  the  appearance  of  being  taller,  and 
makes  him  what  he  is,  a  powerful  man,  whose 
strength  is  accompanied  by  agility,  weight  by 
speed.  He  has  always  been  a  runner;  boasts, 
too,  of  his  father's  prowess  across  country. 
And  one  of  the  signs  of  his  own  enduring  strength 
is  that  his  breath  is  still  good;  he  can  run,  if 


A  MAN  OF  THE  WOODS  97 

necessary,  and  mount  the  Downs,  or  climb  a 
pollard- willow  yet.  He  may  tell  you  that  "  the 
rheumatics  "  trouble  him,  but  we  find  how  much 
that  means  in  a  long  tramp  in  the  nutting 
season,  up  and  down,  over  brooks  and  ha-has: 
then  he  is  the  last  to  complain,  for  the  excite- 
ment of  youth  over  the  gipsying  is  as  strong  as 
ever  in  him.  His  dress,  though  he  knows  it  not, 
by  a  curious  but  natural  adaptation  to  sur- 
roundings, has  become  of  unspeakable  hues; 
slowly  he  has  taken  the  colours  of  the  wildwood 
in  autumn's  grey  and  brown,  like  the  lizard  in 
its  native  fern  and  parched  rock  or  sward. 
Reminiscences  of  bird's-nesting  raids  are  about 
him;  undoubted  evidences  of  his  trespassing, 
in  the  stains  of  the  keeper's  "  tar  trap  " ;  sand, 
from  the  quarries,  where  an  owl  occupied  two 
martins'  tunnels  whose  partition  slipped;  lichen 
from  the  oaks,  and  green  mould  from  the  beeches 
where  we  sup.  Many,  many  colours  impress  his 
sunburnt  coat,  his  hat  no  less;  unlike  the  Downs 
of  his  nativity,  his  cloth  has  emeralded  in  the 
sunshine. 

He  is  a  sportsman,  with  knowledge  of  a  gun, 
but  a  better  poacher,  we  confess;  a  fisherman, 
who  can  bait  a  hook,  yet  a  better  "  tickler  "  of 

7 


98  A  MAN  OF  THE  WOODS 

tench  and  trout.     In  fishing  he  shows  a  failing 
that  is  often  conspicuous  in  men  used,  as  he  is, 
to  other  methods  and  waters;  he  has  too  much 
slow  patience — fonder,  with  rod  in  hand,  of  a 
joke  than  of  his  sport,   and  of  the  moorhen 
paddling  than  of  either;  he  will  sit  for  hours 
with  no  encouragement  but  "  something  in  the 
air "   to  keep  him  at  his  work.     David  is  a 
naturalist,   yet  something  of  a  quack — knows 
and  loves  the  gold  agrimony  wand  or  the  pile- 
wort,  February's  star,  but  fears  nightshade  and 
brooklime  more.     On  the  subject  of  herbs,  he 
is,  of  course,  superstitiously  old-fashioned,  daring 
not  to  doubt;  to  him  they  are  infallible.     The 
same  reverence  for  the  sweet,   small  gifts  of 
Nature  makes  him  over-ready  oftentimes  to  find 
"  Tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks; 
Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  everything." 
His  "  tongues,"  there  found,  are  too  often  dumb 
or  vain;  his  "books"  might  be  deemed  idle; 
but  good  he  does  find,  and  communicates  with 
rare  simplicity.     His  love  of  the  greenwood  is, 
in  very  fact,  deep-seated.  The   superstition  of 
our  man  of  the  woods  with  regard  to  herbs  is 
allied  to  his  speculation  about  birds;  but  it  is 
only  the  speculation  of  almost  all  dwellers  in 


A  MAN  OF  THE  WOODS  99 

the  country.  Just  as  the  old  people  know  there 
are  tree  magpies,  and  bush  magpies,  so  he  will 
have  it  that  the  "  twink  "  is  other  than  the 
"piefinch";  yet  his  twink,  evidently  named 
from  the  chaffinch's  cry,  makes  a  similar  nest 
to  the  piefinch,  and  is  as  dainty  in  its  use  of 
lichen.  "  Piefinch  "  is  a  common  West  Country 
name  for  the  chaffinch.  The  songs,  the  call- 
notes,  the  flights,  the  habits,  sociable  or  solitary, 
of  wild  birds  are  known  to  him.  His  imitations 
of  the  cries  of  woodlanders  and  birds  of  the  field 
are  exquisitely  close;  their  consummation  is  in 
his  rendering  of  the  bullfinch's  melancholy 
"  pipe,"  and  of  the  young  rook's  clamour, 
swallowing  a  worm. 

The  old  man's  vocabulary  is  mixed  and 
strange;  many  of  its  words  being  untraceable, 
most  of  them  derived  from  contact  with  the 
wandering  gipsies.  He  knows  something  of 
Romany,  and  speaks  of  the  "  Diddikai,"  as  he 
correctly  calls  him,  or  half-bred  gipsy,  as  more 
dangerous  and  fierce  than  the  rest.  David,  the 
old  poacher  and  soldier,  "  traveller "  once, 
perchance,  is  keen-witted  and  thoughtful;  at 
times  a  light  smile  plays  gracefully  about  the 
wrinkles  of  time  and  trouble  in  his  cheek.  At 


TOO  A  MAN  OF  THE  WOODS 

night,  when  he  gathers  his  boys  about  him, 
there  is  grave  talk  and  bandied  jest,  and  thrusts 
of  wit.  Perhaps  in  the  midst  of  the  "  godship  " 
one  is  ailing,  and  inevitably  he  suffers  doctoring 
with  long,  dark,  bitter  draughts  of  mysterious 
tea. 

(1897.) 


SEVEN    TRAMPS 


VIII 
SEVEN  TRAMPS:  A  STUDY  IN  BROWN 

WE  were  a  close-knit  and  easily  divisible  covey 
of  seven  tramps — a  woman,  two  boys  and  a  girl, 
and  three  men;  there  was,  too,  an  ass,  but  he 
was  a  gentleman  and  had  belonged  to  a  great 
house  that  lay  near  our  path  one  summer  night. 
We  were  the  most  dirty  of  mankind.  No  tramp 
ever  joined  us,  except  one,  who  was  an  artist. 
He  painted  us  and  said  that  we  might  have 
belonged  to  the  middle  ages.  "  Yes,"  said  one, 
demanding  ale,  "  we  have  known  better  times." 
We  thought  ourselves  honest  tramps;  for  we 
never  robbed  a  poor  man,  not  even  the  artist, 
who  had  art  in  his  head  instead  of  brains.  He 
could  not  paint  dirt,  he  confessed,  and  he 
unscrupulously  invented  and  painted  a  sash  on 
the  girl  of  eight,  so  that  she  cried  when  she  felt 
in  vain  for  the  pleasant  crimson  thing. 

This  girl  was  our  only  burden;  she  was  like  a 
doll  some  child  has  defaced,  and  had  a  thin, 

103 


104  SEVEN  TRAMPS 

coughing  laugh  that  went  into  my  heart  like  a 
needle  at  tunes. 

The  two  boys  were  in  place  of  a  dog.  They 
could  clean  a  copse  of  pheasants'  eggs,  or  mind 
the  camp.  The  arm  of  one  of  them,  "  Snag," 
would  go  through  a  letter  box,  a  natural  gift 
which  he  never  abused.  They  lived  more 
wildly  than  we,  having  come  to  us  from  a 
London  working  family,  as  apprentices  or 
"  halves."  The  elder,  "  Hag,"  was  sometimes 
called  grandfather;  when  he  had  been  drinking, 
he  looked  older  than  anyone  I  have  ever  seen. 

Of  Nell,  the  woman,  it  is  hard  to  say  anything 
except  that  she  was  a  woman  and  could  weep. 
She  bore  children  who  died,  and  helped  the  ass 
up  hill.  She  "  married  "  Tim  when  she  was 
seventeen,  a  gay  dairy  beauty  from  Devon; 
but  when  she  was  twenty  she  was  "  that  ugly 
that  to  see  her  when  she  got  up  in  the  morning 
was  a  curse."  She  was  foolish  when  drunk, 
mad  when  sober,  and  talked  continually  at  the 
top  note  of  tragical  expression.  None  was 
more  cruel  to  her  child  than  she.  Our  cruelty, 
which  I  confess  was  great,  she  rather  encouraged. 
I  hear  her  laugh  sometimes;  it  walks  in  the 
winter  evenings  and  is  all  that  is  left  of  her  now 


SEVEN  TRAMPS  105 

that  she  is  dead.  But  she  alone  was  kind  to 
the  girl,  and  should  any  other  use  endearments 
towards  the  child  she  became  a  fury.  She 
practised  kindness  as  a  secret  indulgence;  I 
have  overheard  her  making  the  child  shriek 
with  her  desperate  caress.  I  have  said  that  she 
was  a  woman,  mainly  because  she  re-arranged 
her  rags  with  coquettish  assiduity;  her  face 
was  not  that  of  a  woman  so  much  as  of  a  type 
that  had  been  created  by  an  artist  in  love  with 
mere  despair. 

Her  husband,  a  brown,  haystack  man,  had 
an  almost  romantic  interest  in  female  beauty. 
Chamber  maids,  barmaids,  and  sporting  women, 
he  worshipped,  and  would  consequently  attend 
at  meets  of  hounds.  The  white  skirts  and  well 
polished  boots  of  servants  raised  his  speech 
to  rhapsody.  Yet  he  cared  for  his  wife  and 
beat  her  only  during  periods  of  very  good  or 
very  bad  fortune.  He  could  snare  a  bird  or 
rabbit  exquisitely,  and  a  certain  pedantic  hate 
of  careless  work  sometimes  left  us  supperless. 
Had  he  been  clean  I  should  have  said  there  was 
a  polish  in  his  ways.  "  Not  a  pigeon,  your 
honour;  'twas  a  handsome  cock  pheasant,"  was 
his  scrupulous  interjection  in  court.  I  believe 


io6  SEVEN  TRAMPS 

he  gloried  in  the  name  of  tramp  and  could  have 
confounded  a  clever  man  by  a  favourable  com- 
parison of  his  profession  with  the  rest.  "  A 
quart  of  six  on  a  wet  night — a  strange,  neat  girl 
in  a  long,  long  lane — to  knock  your  man  down — 
to  have  a  bonny  child  on  your  knee  on  Christmas 
day  " — such  was  his  ode  to  life. 

"  Partridge  "  could  make  the  most  superior 
farmer  or  gamekeeper  impotently  ridiculous 
by  touching  his  cap  and  keeping  within  the 
letter  of  respect.  The  finesse  of  insult  and 
abjection  were  his  life-study.  He  was  master 
of  all  the  arts  of  eloquence  that  are  not  in  Cicero. 
For  he  had  been  a  waiter  and  was  a  linen- 
draper's  son.  But  I  will  not  attempt  to  put 
his  eloquence  in  print  lest  I  should  prove  him 
to  have  been  second-rate.  According  to  our 
standard  he  was  the  gentleman  of  us  all.  He 
stood  five  immaterial  feet  high;  grasped  an  oak 
wand  taller  than  himself;  and  wore  his  hair  over 
his  face.  I  value  his  memory  for  the  way  he 
had  of  cajoling  the  basest  of  men,  all  the  while 
looking  like  an  early  Czar.  .  .  .  He  had  the 
brow  of  a  great  man,  a  singular  thing.  Of  old 
the  brow  made  the  man  and  the  God.  It  was 
his  natural  gonfanon — the  brow  of  Jupiter— 


SEVEN  TRAMPS  107 

of  Aphrodite — of  Plato — of  Augustus — was  for 
centuries  an  altar  where  human  thoughts  and 
dreams  did  reverence.  The  history  of  sculpture 
is  a  te  deum  laudamus  to  the  brow.  Now  the 
soul  has  descended  a  step  of  the  temple  and 
dwells  in  the  eyes.  On  the  stock  exchange,  in 
parliament,  in  the  army  and  in  literature, 
victory  is  won  by  the  eyes.  "  Partridge " 
had  that  calm  and  ample  span  of  curving  bone, 
but  his  eyes  slept,  and  he  was  a  failure.  Having 
once  caught  a  partridge,  the  accident  was 
considered  apt  to  give  him  the  name  by  which 
he  was  known. 

As  for  "  Mud  "  (short  for  Muddle),  he  was  a 
poor  human  creature,  and  a  tramp  by  accident. 
He  would  never  tell  the  facts  of  his  early  life, 
though  his  way  and  conversation  made  them  a 
subject  for  secure  surmise.  He  had  left  his  own 
class  and  become  a  labourer.  His  health  failing, 
he  had  taken  to  the  road  with  no  certain  aim. 
After  spending  his  money  unadventurously  he 
lay  dying  when  we  passed  near,  and  Nell  lifted 
him  on  to  the  ass  and  made  him  one  of  us.  He 
recovered,  but  always  seemed  to  be  dying;  his 
voice  was  a  long  sigh;  yet  was  he  the  happiest 
of  us  all.  I  have  heard  him  utter  sour  words, 


io8  SEVEN  TRAMPS 

only  against  "  the  rich,"  "  the  world,"  and 
"  men,"  who  were  the  mainstay  of  his  incurable 
pessimism  of  thought.  His  behaviour  with  men 
and  women  belied  the  theory  of  this  gentle 
optimist  in  practice.  Should  any  decisive 
political  or  social  movement  stir  the  world,  he 
would  not  fail  to  point  out  its  anti-human 
tendency,  its  trifling  probable  influence  upon  the 
sum  of  things.  But  the  man — the  politician 
or  agitator  at  the  helm — even  if  he  happened 
to  be  well-fed,  attracted  his  sympathy  at  once: 
he  would  insist  on  the  man's  character  as  a  man, 
and  on  the  way  in  which  every  man's  actions 
when  extended  out  of  the  reach  of  his  sight  will 
vary  from  their  original  cast.  I  believe  he  was 
an  idealist.  He  spent  whole  days  in  searching 
for  straight  hazels  in  the  copses  and  returned  with 
a  bundle  like  Jupiter's  quiverful  of  lightning. 
"  I  tried  to  get  them  perfectly  straight,"  he 
explained.  He  seemed  in  truth  to  have  in  his 
mind  a  long  shelf  of  platonic  ideas,  dusty, 
rusted,  moth-eaten  by  sorrow  and  the  ills  of  the 
body.  To  these  he  referred  all  he  saw  in  real 
life.  His  ideas  were  castles,  Dulcineas,  Micomi- 
conas;  and  since  he  rarely  met  anything  better 
than  a  Maritornes,  his  dull  sight — or  perhaps 


SEVEN  TRAMPS  109 

his  charity — raised  up  the  hands  of  these 
mortal,  rotten  things  to  his  cobwebs  and  his 
gods,  associating  them.  He  would  single  out 
some  poor  house  or  inn,  some  unlucky  girl's 
face,  and  transfer  to  them  the  glowing  sentiments 
which  he  had  once  reserved  for  his  inner,  ideal 
vision  of  these  things.  He  saw  a  miracle  where 
there  was  in  truth  but  a  second-rate  dawn. 
He  felt  an  enchantment  when  everybody  else 
felt  cold.  He  thought  that  the  ways  of  a  tramp 
sorted  better  with  the  history  of  mankind  than 
any  other.  Responsibilities  and  duties  he  had, 
but  should  he  perish  none  would  suffer.  The 
responsibilities  were  co-terminous  with  the  length 
of  life  which  chance  had  planned  for  him. 
Nomadic,  unencumbered  by  property,  relatives, 
or  social  status,  he  was  a  creature  in  keeping 
with  an  unaccountable  world.  No  storm,  no 
social  disaster,  no  philosopher  or  tyrant  con- 
cerned him  save  as  a  spectacle.  The  stars  in 
their  courses  were  not  more  serene,  more  lonely 
than  he.  Such  a  friend  of  night  was  he,  the 
stars  were  nearer  to  him  than  man.  "  If  only 
they  would  warm  my  hands  !"  he  cried.  When 
the  north  wind  blew,  it  killed  someone's  sheep, 
broke  windows,  laid  the  corn;  his  ears  tingled, 


no  SEVEN  TRAMPS 

he  grew  silent,  and  I  believe  that  he  rode  upon 
the  wind  as  happily  as  a  witch  or  a  brown  leaf. 
A  noble  sound,  the  sight  of  the  sea,  or  the 
perfume  of  a  lane — "  I  eat  and  drink  them," 
said  he.  Thus  he  seemed  to  me  the  half,  as  it 
were  the  female  half,  of  the  greatest  poet  that 
ever  did  not  live.  By  difficult  ways  and  strange, 
such  a  man  is  made  a  poet.  He  was  once 
narrating  the  wonders  of  an  evening  in  a  wood; 
he  paused  and  paused  as  I  became  expectant, 
and  at  last  said  with  some  shame  that  the  very 
trees  were  "  like  a  church  full  of  men  when  the 
organ  begins ;  and  I  was  no  better  than  any  one  of 
them."  In  outward  appearance  he  was,  like 
the  other  six,  a  brown  tramp. 

(1902.) 


DEATH   BY  MISADVENTURE 


IX 
DEATH  BY  MISADVENTURE 

As  the  train  slowed  down  between  the  long 
grey  platforms  all  the  men  in  the  carriage 
dropped  their  newspapers  to  their  knees  and 
raised  their  eyes,  without  any  appearance  of 
thought  or  emotion,  in  short  with  a  railway- 
carriage  expression,  to  scan  the  name  of  the 
station,  the  small  groups  by  the  bookstall,  the 
two  or  three  intending  passengers  just  coming 
through  the  doorway  of  the  booking-office. 
On  steeply  rising  ground  above  the  station 
flocks  of  white  linen  flapped  wildly  and  brightly 
in  the  back  gardens  of  rows  of  new  cottages. 
Above  these,  white  clouds  went  nobly  through 
the  sky  like  ships  ages  ago  on  some  long  quest 
of  love  or  of  war. 

When  the  train  was  still,  there  was  not  one 
shout.  No  one  called  out  the  name  of  the  town 
or  the  place  for  which  we  were  bound.  No 
one  cried  "  Chocolate,"  "  Paper  "  or  "  Violets  " 

113  8 


H4       DEATH  BY  MISADVENTURE 

though  the  vendors  of  these  things  were  at  hand 
a  moment  ago. 

A  stout  man  in  black  coat  and  black  gaiters 
opened  the  door  of  our  carriage  and  got  in 
puffing,  yet  saying  as  he  closed  the  door: 

11  Man  killed.  Carelessness.  Nobody's  fault 
except  his  own.  Teach  platelayers  a  lesson. 
Smoker  and  drinker,  I'll  be  bound." 

People  began  to  hurry  past  our  windows  to- 
wards the  engine.  Those  in  the  carriage  who 
sat  nearest  the  windows  put  their  newspaper 
on  their  seats  and  in  turn  put  out  their  heads 
to  look.  "  You  can't  see  anything,"  said  one. 

The  train  backed  slowly  a  few  yards.  "  He 
was  under  the  engine,"  said  the  observer.  Some 
of  us  were  dimly  pleased  to  have  had  an  experi- 
ence which  not  everyone  has  every  day;  the 
stout  man  was  disturbed  by  the  delay;  others 
were  uncomfortable  during  this  movement,  as 
knowing  that  they  were  in  part  the  cause  of 
the  accident  and  that  their  weight  was  now 
helping  to  crush  out  the  blood  and  life  of  a  man ; 
one  wanted  to  jump  out,  but  while  no  one  was 
willing  to  leave  the  carriage,  all  were  bent  on 
taking  their  turn  at  the  window. 

A  policeman  walked  smartly  by,  and  one  of  the 


DEATH  BY  MISADVENTURE       115 

seated  passengers  remarked  that  "  on  the  Con- 
tinent" they  arrest  the  engine-driver  as  a  matter 
of  course.  Two  porters  followed  with  a  stretcher. 

"  Now  they  are  picking  him  up,  but  I  can't 
see  for  the  crowd,"  said  the  one  who  now  had 
his  head  out.  "  Here  he  comes.  ...  No. 
He  must  be  dead.  .  .  .  There  is  some  more." 
The  train  backed  yet  a  little  again.  '  They 
have  got  all  of  him." 

In  the  little  gardens  the  housewives  and 
daughters  were  already  watching.  Old  and 
young,  buxom  and  slender,  fresh  and  worn,  in 
their  white  aprons  and  print  dresses,  leaned  over 
the  low  fences,  one  stood  upon  the  fence  and 
stared.  The  scent  of  death  had  not  taken  a 
minute  to  reach  those  women  whose  sons  and 
husbands  and  fathers  and  lovers  include  some — 
it  is  not  known  which  of  them — who  are  destined 
to  die  bloodily  and  unexpectedly.  There  was 
not  a  sound  except  the  hissing  of  the  steam, 
until  the  guilty  train  began  to  grunt  forward 
again  and  take  us  past  a  little  group  of  uni- 
formed men  with  ashen  faces  surrounding  the 
brown  humpy  cloth  which  covered  the  remains 
of  the  chosen  one. 

(1911.) 


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x 

A  COLLOQUY  IN  A  LIBRARY 

PERSONA: 
Some  Men;  Many  Books;  Nature. 

THE  moon  rose  amid  the  comfortable,  melan- 
choly noise  of  rain  in  darkness,  and  it  was  near 
the  time  I  set  apart  for  dreams,  dreams  in  a 
kind  of  mental  euthanasia,  which  is  as  superior  to 
mere  sleep  as  dining  is  to  eating.  If  I  remember 
well,  it  was  on  such  a  chair  as  roused  Evelyn's 
wonder  in  Florence  (before  these  dreams  were 
invented),  "  a  conceited  chair  to  sleep  in  with 
the  legs  stretched  out,  with  hooks,  and  pieces 
of  wood  to  draw  out  longer  or  shorter."  In 
the  absolutely  windless  air  there  was  a  nervous 
palpitation  or  fretting,  more  awful  than  ghosts. 
The  fascinations  of  pure  nothingness  gradually 
overcame  the  fascinations  of  Robert  Burton. 
I  laid  aside  the  book.  .  .  .  Presently  the 
London  midnight  silence  fell  upon  me  with  all 
its  spells.  It  was  that  silence  in  which  how 

119 


120      A  COLLOQUY  IN  A  LIBRARY 

many  hearts  were  breaking  !  how  many  souls 
passing  beyond  the  veil !  and  yet  so  quietly  that 
the  clear  note  of  a  chapel  bell  arose  above  it  all- 
nay  !  the  ticking  of  my  watch  was  louder  far. 
A  puissant  spell  it  was;  by  some  means  more 
subtle  and  direct  than  thought,  I  realized  my 
own  intense  loneliness.  Then  the  very  rain 
falling  patiently  had  a  magic  hold  upon  me, 
and  I  stopped  my  ears  as  if  a  Siren  sang.  .  .  . 
The  light  went  out.  I  had  no  will  to  trim  it. 
The  darkness  was  suffocating. 

So  I  rose  and  left  the  house,  and  the  white 
moon  was  genial  by  comparison.  In  Chapman's 
phrase,  the  moon  had  comforted  the  night.  My 
path  went  towards  the  lodgings  of  a  friend 
who  would,  I  knew,  be  awake  among  his 
books. 

That  setting  moon,  seen  through  nocturnal 
scud,  was  turbulently  besieged  by  clouds,  black 
as  pitch,  plunging  over  the  horizon.  With  its 
ray,  or  with  an  illumination — neither  of  star  nor 
sun — that  chances  oftentimes  by  night,  the 
western  sky  was  pale.  Everything  was  quiet. 
Sight  of  all  save  the  moon  and  the  wayside  elm 
grove  was  unaccountably  soon  lost.  Now  and 
again  the  white  derelict  crescent  foundered,  and 


A  COLLOQUY  IN  A  LIBRARY      121 

was  gone  among  interminable  precipices  of 
midnight;  and  no  star  shone;  or,  if  one,  it  was 
infinitely  distant,  and  seemed  no  more  than  the 
reflection  of  a  star,  as  it  vanished  and  reap- 
peared in  one  of  the  lugubrious  gulfs,  among  the 
white  floes  of  cloud  at  the  zenith.  A  wind  had 
arisen;  but,  victorious  over  the  storm,  the  dark- 
ness made  a  strange  peace.  Everything  was 
quiet,  though  mighty  trees  were  thrown  down 
and  buildings  moaned. 

The  clarity  of  the  air  and  the  insistent  outlines 
of  things  were  remarkable,  and  as  perfect  as  at 
noon,  though  the  clarity  was  different,  different 
in  what  it  visited  and  what  forgot.  The  elm 
trees  were  aggrandised  in  majesty  and  ap- 
parently in  bulk,  with  all  the  mysterious  aloof- 
ness of  trees.  The  great  boles  were  massive 
and  near.  Their  delicate  anatomy  seemed  to 
reach  into  the  sky. 

"  Sprites  of  the  blest  and  every  saint  y-dead  " 
were  abroad  in  that  pure  night,  and  by  the  time 

I  reached  the  study  of  my  spirits  were 

recovered. 

We  talked  of  many  things.  We  agreed  (we 
had  need  to)  in  cursing  print  for  destroying  in 
part  the  individuality  or  value  of  handwriting 


122      A  COLLOQUY  IN  A  LIBRARY 

by  separating  it   from   authorship;   and  - 
became  autobiographical.     He  began : 

'  If  I  am  no  better  than  other  men,  at  least 
I  am  different/  said  Rousseau.  It  was  an 
unnecessary  preliminary.  The  least  of  us  can 
say  as  much.  The  poet  fears  that  Nature  has 
broken  the  mould  that  shaped  his  mistress;  but 
the  earth  is  littered  with  chrysalides:  no  two 
are  alike.  Hence  the  folly  of  accusing  anyone 
of  plagiarism.  For  when  I  have  spoken  a  word 
— no  matter  who  has  spoken  it  before — it  be- 
comes mine.  The  accent,  the  context,  the 
particular  intention,  shapes  it  anew.  The 
meanest  can  say  this;  and  who  knows  so 
thoroughly  his  neighbour's  soul  as  to  say  truth- 
fully, '  I  understand  thee '  ?  Thus  we  are  all 
authors,  all  original.  This  man  buys  a  book, 
and  it  becomes  his  in  every  sense,  when  he  has 
read  it,  though  it  bears  another's  name  on  the 
back.  When  I  see  my  friend's  bookshelves  I 
say  to  myself,  '  These  are  -  -'s  or  -  -'s  works. 
The  author  has  done  nothing  more  than  put  on 
paper  what  this  man  has  put  into  his  heart 
and  on  his  shelves:  the  more  cunning  he !'  To 
open  a  book  is  ever  to  go  on  a  voyage  of  dis- 
covery. The  anchor  is  up,  and  you  are  adrift 


A  COLLOQUY  IN  A  LIBRARY      123 

on  the  unknown.  This  is  virgin  soil  you  touch. 
With  your  discoveries  you  deal  as  discoverers 
have  done  before;  you  take  possession  of  it  in 
the  name  of  the  king — yourself;  your  possession 
is  confirmed  by  a  bull  from  the  Pope — yourself; 
you  are  Columbus  and  Ferdinand  and  Alexander 
in  one.  You  shall  know  a  man  by  his  books. 
I  was  away  from  home  once,  and  a  lady  I  had 
never  seen  occupied  my  room.  She  was  taken 
suddenly  ill,  and  left  an  unfinished  letter  on 
the  desk — which  I  read  for  good  reasons.  Judge 
whether  it  was  kind  or  unkind  !  but  the  letter 
contained  a  portrait  of  me,  drawn  in  a  page  of 
subtle  sentences,  from  my  books.  .  .  .  When 
I  see  a  fat  russet  folio  make  itself  a  home  between 
the  gaudy  fashions  of  to-day — ragged  and  grim — 

In  bearded  majesty 

I  know  how  I  shall  greet  the  man  that  is  owner 
thereof.  Moving  often  among  books,  I  came 
to  see  a  likeness  in  them  to  men.  Again,  some 

men  resemble  books.     There  is ,  enormous, 

well-groomed,  unsociable,  inarticulate,  but  with 
an  expression  that  says  '  Look  within ' ;  he  is  like 
an  old  dictionary  '  in  one  volume  quarto,  old 
calf,  neat.'  To  what,  save  Cato's  f  Agriculture ' 


124       A  COLLOQUY  IN  A  LIBRARY 

bound  in  pigskin,  shall  I  compare  -  — ,  blunt, 
autochthonous,  truthful  to  a  fault  ?  Again  -  — , 
fantastic,  always  in  mourning  for  a  relative 
whose  ink  runs  dry  when  she  should  have  put 
him  in  her  will — but  ever  youthful  and  going 
'  merrily  to  heaven ' ;  he  must  go  on  the  same 
shelf  as  yonder  duodecimo  '  Elia '  in  gloomy 
levant.  What  gentle,  tender  damsels — what 
old  maids,  lachrymose  and  devout — what  red- 
faced,  stout-hearted  housewives,  are  there 
among  books !  and  great  fellows  with  yard-long 
oaths  (writ  with  a  sword),  and  melancholic 
lovers.  Like  men,  too,  no  doubt — and  not 
unlike  women — the  exterior  often  seems  (only, 
perhaps,  because  we  know  not  how  to  judge) 
to  misrepresent  the  soul  of  the  book,  as  must 
happen  more  often  as  the  binding  becomes 
wholly  separate  from  the  writing  of  a  book ;  and 
as  people  come  to  look  merely  at  the  '  object ' 
of  a  writer,  and  soon  regard  the  book  not  as  a 
medium,  but  as  an  obstacle,  between  mind  and 
mind;  '  c'est  pourquoi,'  says  Rabelais  half  in 
sadness,  '  fault  ouvrir  le  livre  et  soigneusement 
peser  ce  que  y  est  deduict.' 

"  The  other  day  I  saw  a  new  whim  in  a  library 
that  vastly  pleased  me.     There  were  folios  that 


A  COLLOQUY  IN  A  LIBRARY      125 

might  serve  to  prop  a  temple — dear,  old 
malodorous,  rain- worn  '  Compleat  Anglers  ' ; 
Spectators  with  breakfast  stains;  Lambs  so 
marked  that  only  a  line  here  and  there  was  left, 
and  that  found,  after  all,  to  be  the  best !  .  .  . 
a  nation  of  books,  in  perfect  order,  simplex, 
munditiis.  Such  order,  however,  I  had  not 
seen  elsewhere.  It  was  a  concatenation  in 
which  no  book  (had  it  lived  and  could  say 
Good-morrow  !)  would  have  disdained  its  neigh- 
bour. Every  book,  indeed,  seemed  just  to  have 
ceased  talking  to  its  neighbours  when  I  came  in. 
Many  of  the  books  I  knew.  That  Shelley,  for 
example,  reminded  me  of  days  among  the 
caracoling  birch  trees  of  Wimbledon,  and  the 
light  grey  lances  of  the  hazels  interwoven  by 
the  wind.  .  .  .  Every  shelf  was  a  chord  of 
meditation.  That  '  Can  a  Thelyn,'  again,  un- 
locked a  Welsh  vignette,  seen  from  Bryn  Gwyn 
Bach  (The  Little  White  Hill) — a  moonlit  estuary 
like  a  shield  of  silver,  emblazoned  with  sable 
tree  shadows.  By  reminiscential  evocation,  that 
'  Temple '  seemed  to  bear  the  very  scent  of 
Eton  lime  blossoms,  an  amber  fervid  evening, 
and  all  the  nuptial  splendour  of  June.  In  that 
way  every  shelf  told  in  orderly  fashion  more 


126      A  COLLOQUY  IN  A  LIBRARY 

truth  than  most  autobiographies  so  called.  But 
one  shelf  contained  a  harlequinade  of  books. 
I  tried  to  reconcile  them,  but  failed.  The 
editions  spoke  of  no  choice.  For  the  most  part 
they  were  gay  and  cheap,  and  (strange  for  such 
a  good  uncle  of  books)  dog's-eared.  The 
'  Compleat  Angler/  books  of  travel,  King  Arthur, 
Scott — this  was  strange  harmony  !  So  I  took 
one  down.  The  flyleaf  bore  my  friend's  name 
in  an  unknown  handwriting,  very  childish, 
precise,  yet  awkward,  with  the  early  date  of 
18— . 

"  '  These,  then/  I  said,  'must  be  the  books  of 
your  childhood  ?' 

"  '  You  are  right/  said  he.  '  Have  you  not 
seen  how  a  gardener  lovingly  permits  some 
ragged  brier  to  wander  free,  because  it  was  the 
step-parent  to  those  exquisite  roses  that  cling 
in  December,  like  handfuls  of  early  snow,  to  the 
grey  walls  ?  Well,  for  something  like  his  reasons 
I  preserve  these  books.  That  Defoe,  for 
example,  is  father  to  every  romance  upon  my 
shelves ;  that  '  Compleat  Angler  '  to  every  book 
of  poems  and  philosophy — to  Shelley,  Words- 
worth, Dyer,  to  Coleridge,  Ruskin,  Lamb.  I 
could  not  live  without  them.  It  is  true  that 


A  COLLOQUY  IN  A  LIBRARY      127 

I  live,  as  Leonardo  wrote,  backwards;  but  even 
were  it  otherwise,  I  should  be  like  one  bereft 
of  memory  or  her  keys,  without  them,  and  life 
would  be  more  histrionic  than  ever.  These  are, 
indeed,  but  '  bundles  of  cypress/  or  locks  of  hair 
from  a  life  that  is  dead;  but  they  save  me  from 
the  pain  of  feeling  that  death  itself  is  dead.  .  .  . 
And  as  you  have  said,  they  seemed  to  be  rather 
my  books  than  Scott's  or  Walton's;  I  should 
resent  their  ill-treatment  as  if  they  were.  For 
between  the  lines  are  inscribed  in  subtle,  in- 
visible characters  my  earliest  half  thoughts ;  the 
backgrounds  of  the  pictures  are  peopled  by  my 
earliest  dreams.  The  book  is  mine  by  inter- 
change of  thought. 

He  piped,  I  sung;  and  when  he  sung  I  piped. 

"  A  book  to  me  was  a  piece  of  enchantment 
more  fascinating  than  the  monotonous  miracles 
of  Grimm.  It  was  quite  possible  for  a  dainty 
sapient  fairy — as,  indeed,  I  read  somewhere 
— to  emerge  from  the  leaves  of  a  reverend 
book.  The  fairy  was  there,  and  marshalled  hosts 
of  fantastic  creatures,  as  real  as  the  people 
I  saw  around,  and  yet : 


128      A  COLLOQUY  IN  A  LIBRARY 

As  they  please 

They  limn  themselves,  and  colour,  shape  or  size, 
Assume  as  likes  them  best,  condense  or  rare. 

"I  had  few  preferences  at  first;  one  book  was 
as  wonderful  as  another;  and  I  could  have  ill- 
endured  that  holocaust  suggested  by  Sir  Thomas 
Browne  'to  condemn  to  the  fire  those  swarms 
and  millions  of  rhapsodies  begotten  only  to 
distract  and  allure  the  weaker  judgment  of 
scholars,  and  to  maintain  the  trade  and  mystery 
of  typographers !'  The  mystery  of  typo- 
graphers !  there  lay  half  the  spell.  The  child 
had  only  to  read  a  few  words  and  the  charm 
worked— 

And  from  these  create  he  can 
Forms  more  real  than  living  man, 
Nurselings  of  immortality. 

The  words  might  be  never  so  poor,  the  print 
never  so  faulty,  the  binding  base — it  was  ethereal 
substance;  I  cared  only  for  the  characters.  For 
the  fancy  worked  so  finely,  and  took  wing  at  the 
barest  suggestion.  No  matter  how  strange  and 
exotic  the  matter,  I  was  at  once  at  home.  Was 
it  the  polar  world,  the  tropic  forest  and  its 
myriad  rainbow  wings,  the  sea  ?  I  was  not 
surprised,  I  had  been  there — long  ago;  all  was 


A  COLLOQUY  IN  A  LIBRARY      129 

as  it  should  be;  yes  !     I  had  been  there  in  my 
dreams  and  anticipated  the  boldest  explorers. 
I   might   have   safely   shaken   my   head   after 
reading   Sir  Samuel   Baker's  Travels;    '  but   I 
knew  it  all ' — in  fancy  outstripping  his  painful 
marches,  like  the  swallows  that  fly  overhead. 
I  should  have  greeted  Man  Friday  with  no  more 
surprise  than  I  should  my  brother.     I  filled  every 
inch  with  living  forms.     No  street  was  empty. 
No  sky  was  bare.     I  was  never  alone.     Often, 
indeed,  I  exchanged  masks  with  the  fictitious 
characters.     I  lived  their  life:  therefore,  I  find 
myself  now  confusing  the  adventures  of  hero 
and  heroine  with  my  own,  and  read  of  the  deeds 
of  Amadis  or  Amaryllis  as  mine.     Was  it  I,  or 
was  it  Lancelot,  that  carried  Arthur's  offer  of 
marriage  to  Guinevere  ?  .  .  .     I  was  a  tyran- 
nous master  of  all  puppets  that  books  put  into 
my  sway.     If  the  author  did  not  describe  them 
— and  probably  also  if  he  did — I  put  them  into 
garments  to  suit  my  sense  of  fitness.     I  chose 
their   background:   I   knew,   for   example,   the 
sandy  shore  of  a  pond  on  a  certain  common, 
where  years  ago,  if  you  sought  carefully,  you 
would  find  the  cannibal  footsteps  that  startled 
Crusoe.     I  knew  the  very  gap  in  the  coppice  of 

9 


130      A  COLLOQUY  IN  A  LIBRARY 

oaks  through  which  Tristram  appeared  in  his 
armour,  all  dew-bespattered,  as  if  with  actual 
fire.  Even  now  as  I  pass  I  see  Palomides, 
pensively  treading  the  forest  walks,  so  tall  that 
his  charger  follows  without  drooping  head.  To 
me  the  author  was  a  magician — as  Virgil  and 
Horace  were  to  the  dark  ages.  I  would  have 
credited  sortes  Maloriana.  The  watchful  lamp 
shining  for  miles  over  the  sleepy  land;  the  quill 
(a  rhabdomancer's  wand) ;  the  library  overhead 
and  around ;  the  white  paper  on  which  the  mind 
was  casting  lines  of  shadow;  and  he  writing 
alone  in  the  hushed  midnight  with  '  earthquake 
and  eclipse  '  for  ink,  were  no  less  impressive 
than  the  crucible  and  enginery  of  alchemists, 
elaborating  puissant  alcahests  in  olden  times. 
Every  letter  was  a  symbol  whose  import  was 
not  fully  interpret  able  even  by  sages.  More  lay 
hid  in  printed  pages  than  met  the  eye;  and 
authors  found  in  me  the  perfect  reader,  who 
read  all '  en  la  perfectissime  partie.'  There  was 
vanity  in  my  affection,  too;  so  that  I  cared 
for  old  quaint  authors  partly  because  I  could 
correct  such  '  errors  '  of  spelling  as  I  found 
in  the  '  Compleat  Angler/  I  was  what  quaint 
John  Earle  calls  '  the  surgeon  of  old  authors/ 


A  COLLOQUY  IN  A  LIBRARY      131 

who  '  healed  the  wounds  of  dust  and  ignorance/ 
Later  on,  when  I  made  fishing  an  excuse  for 
many  hours  afield,  Izaak  had  his  revenge,  for 
I  tried  all  the  strange  baits  with  which  he 
deluded  himself,  if  not  the  fish;  but  at  first 
I  was  chiefly  pleased  by  the  visions  of  a  sweet 
life  passed  in  the  meadows  and  in  rooms  where 
the  scent  of  the  meadows  lingered.  The  scene 
was  indeed  new,  though  I  expected  all  as  it 
came.  But  in  a  life  of  disappointments,  the 
advent  of  the  thing  expected  is  really  the  finest 
of  surprises.  So  in  many  books  I  enjoyed  the 
matter  even  though  my  knowledge  of  it  first 
came  through  books.  No  wonders  of  tropic 
sound  and  colour  startled  me.  Great  rivers 
'  big  as  any  sea  ' ;  infinite  wilds  of  palm  and 
sand;  olive  and  chestnut  of  Italy  were  no  stranger 
than  the  hollyhocks  under  the  apple-trees  in  the 
old  Welsh  garden.  I  suppose  it  was  the 
splendour  of  the  dream  world, 

A  prophet  oft  (and  oft  a  historic), 

that  prepared  my  mind  for  the  splendour  of  the 
earth.  When  I  crossed  the  Arctic  deserts 
(bolstered  in  an  armchair  by  crimson  cushions) 
I  felt  as  little  surprised  as  the  most  battered 


132      A  COLLOQUY  IN  A  LIBRARY 

mariner;  I  had  seen  ice-fields  vaster.  The  Alps 
were  fine,  but  I  knew  finer  hills  than  that. 
Como  was  a  dull  puddle  compared  with  what 
I  knew. 

"  And  how  deliciously  books  became  incor- 
porate with  places  !  with  times  of  the  year  ! 
with  matins  or  vespers  !  '  The  Ancient  Mari- 
ner '  rests  for  ever  in  the  setting  (as  of  sombre 
monastic  illuminations)  of  the  first  midnight  I 
ever  looked  out  upon — a  still  midnight  in  black 
and  white — in  January — with  a  few  big  stars 
that  withered  one  at  a  time  occasionally  under 
invisible  cloud.  The  house  was  nervously  ex- 
pecting a  visitor.  I  was  left  to  myself,  forgotten. 
The  room  was  half  lighted;  many  of  the  great 
book-shelves  were  in  gloom;  outside,  the  world 
of  trees  and  roof  ridges  piercing  the  sky;  be- 
yond, the  ghost  of  a  great  mountain,  like  a 
cloud;  and  all  dark  to  the  grey  edges  of  the  sea, 
on  to  where — in  the  moonlight  '  far  off  their 
coming  shone ' — rollers  fell  with  a  roar  every 
now  and  then.  And  the  mystery  of  the  every- 
day world  seen  thus,  as  I  sat  in  the  peopled 
solitude  of  the  library,  has  never  quite  departed : 

There  nothing  common  was  or  mean 
Upon  that  memorable  scene. 


A  COLLOQUY  IN  A  LIBRARY      133 

At  last  I  fell  asleep  and  the  great  book  almost 
covered  me  as  I  lay.  This  copy  of  the  '  Opium- 
Eat  er/  too,  summons  my  thoughts  '  to  the 
court  of  affection,'  Sir  Philip  Sidney  calls  it, 
'  held  by  that  racking  steward  Remembrance.' 
My  fancy  wandered  at  the  passage  ending: 
' '.  .  .  In  the  very  aspect  and  the  sepulchral  still- 
ness of  the  motionless  day,  as  solemnly  it  wore 
away  through  morning,  noontide,  afternoon, 
to  meet  the  darkness  that  was  hurrying  to 
swallow  up  its  beauty,  I  had  a  fantastic  feeling 
as  though  I  read  the  very  language  of  resigna- 
tion when  bending  before  some  irresistible 
agency.  And  at  intervals  I  heard — in  how 
different  a  key — the  raving,  the  everlasting 
uproar  of  that  dreadful  metropolis,  which  at 
every  step  was  coming  nearer,  and  beckoning 
(as  it  seemed)  to  myself  for  purposes  as  dim, 
for  issues  as  incalculable,  as  the  path  of  cannon- 
shots  fired  at  random  and  in  darkness.'  Forgive 
me  another  trifle  from  the  rue  and  lavender  of 
memory. 

"It  was  a  Sunday  evening;  I  was  left 
quite  alone,  though  rather  unwell — feverish  and 
excited,  seeing  visions.  '  Everybody  was  gone  !' 
— as  I  cried  whimpering  in  the  folds  of  a  curtain, 


134       A  COLLOQUY  IN  A  LIBRARY 

where  long  after  dark  a  visit  or  found  me  out.  .  .  . 
It  was  '  Robinson  Crusoe '  that  produced  the 
exaggeration  of  irritability  and  implacable  lone- 
liness that  were  so  stamped  upon  my  mind. 
Outside,  swans  floated  shadowless  on  a  moonlit 
pool.  Pale  summer  lightning  winked  low  down 
at  intervals.  With  what  mystery  (remembering 
afresh  and  with  pleasure  ancient  matters)  the 
whole  scene  now  returns — myself  strangely 
isolated  and  belittled,  as  England  seemed  in  the 
great  globe  of  the  library. 

"  I  had  almost  forgotten  this  Hazlitt  remind- 
ing me  of  a  great  lover  of  books ;  Corydon  of  - 
College,  Oxford,  with  whom  I  dined  as  a  small 
boy.  Corydon  was  a  notable  youth,  his  chest- 
nut hair  gadding  about  a  delicate  face,  his 
voice  like  the  after  sound  of  a  bell,  his  intellect 
developed  in  the  lines  of  a  Grecian  rhapsodist, 
but  with  a  certain  lack  of  articulation  and 
wildness  of  habit  through  which  his  written 
work  savoured  of  wine  more  than  the  lamp. 
We  and  Corydon  made  a  party  of  six.  His 
gestures,  particularly  a  gracious  way  of  bowing 
his  head  as  he  smiled,  had  a  magic  that  quickly 
made  our  number  seem  inevitable  and  right 
(so  that  one  more  or  less  would  have  spoilt 


A  COLLOQUY  IN  A  LIBRARY       135 

the  whole),  much  as  the  outstretched  arms  of 
Mary  in  '  Our  Lady  of  the  Rocks/  harmonize 
and    unify    the    group.     Very    soon    everyone 
was  talking  eagerly  in  turn.     A  choicely  laden 
board,  of  which  I  probably  alone  took  notice, 
was  cleared,  before  anyone  was  aware.     Cory- 
don  only  was  now  speaking,  I  remember,  when 
hardly  to  our  surprise,  the  servant  carried  in  a 
strange,  but  noble  course;  my  portion  was  a  copy 
of  '  Elia,'  and  I  think  there  was  nothing  but 
Lamb  upon  the  dish;  however  it  was,  we  had 
each  a  memorable  book — I  put  mine  in  my 
pocket — and  the  conversation  ran  happily  into 
every   nook    that    rivers    from    Helicon    visit. 
Again  and  again  the  old  servant  came  in  with  a 
great  smile,  bearing  now  a  dish  of  folios,  and 
now,  as  the  lights  in  the  candlesticks  began  to 
struggle  ere  they  went  out,  a  plate  of  dainty 
duodecimos.     Some  of  them,  as  I  hear,  were 
from  the  inmost  very  kernel  of  Corydon  library, 
priceless  gifts.     Then  indeed  it  was  fine  to  see 
the  connoisseurs  tasting  and  quickly  devouring 
the  new,    ancient   volumes  that  he  provided. 
Wine  was  also  on  the  table.     One  said  that 
Shelley  and  champagne  were  excellent;  and  a 
compote  of  port,  Montaigne  and  pomegranates, 


136       A  COLLOQUY  IN  A  LIBRARY 

incomparable.  One  old  bookworm,  whom  I 
may  not  omit,  drew  away  into  a  delicious  chair, 
with  a  long  sought  volume,  like  a  dog  with  a 
bone,  and  would  not  be  distracted.  Even  at 
the  mid  strokes  of  midnight  we  lingered  and 
retiring  to  our  rooms,  when  I  kept  feverishly 
awake  on  my  father's  knee,  talked  until  the 
earliest  swallow  twittered,  and  we  felt  that  last 
night  we  had  truly  '  dined.' ' 

(1900.) 


FELIX 


XI 
FELIX 

FELIX  was  greatly  to  be  envied,  as  everyone 
said.  He  had  just  inherited  from  his  father  a 
beautiful  realm,  so  governed  by  old  ministers, 
that  the  late  king  seemed  to  be  living  still, 
with  all  his  virtue  and  wisdom.  A  noble, 
happy  people  dwelt  in  the  fields  and  cities  of 
that  land.  The  fairest  women  of  the  world 
were  to  be  found  in  its  country-sides.  Every 
year  the  harvest  was  large  and  golden;  the 
granaries  ever  being  emptied,  always  full. 
Inter-swaying  masts  crowded  the  harbours; 
the  seas  around  were  aflower  with  white  sails. 
Everywhere,  the  joyful  sound  of  toil.  The 
memory  of  a  line  of  mighty  kings  made  safe 
the  uttermost  capes  even,  though  a  ship  had 
to  be  at  least  one  New  Year's  Day  afloat  in 
putting  a  girdle  round  about  the  coast. 

At  nineteen   Felix   was   king.     As   much  in 
beauty  as  in  rank  he  surpassed  all  of  his  race. 

139 


140  FELIX 

The  slenderness  and  length,  the  plump  tenuity, 
of  his  limbs  were  those  of  a  statue;  seeing  him 
stripped,  for  the  bath  or  for  games,  his  friends 
praised  him  beyond  all  women.  For  hours  he 
used  to  lie  upon  purple  cushions,  and  gaze  upon 
himself  until  he  laughed,  out  of  joy  and  pride. 
His  chestnut-coloured  hair — with  paler  lights  as 
in  the  grain  of  a  chestnut — 

Cast  in  a  thousand  snares  and  rings 
For  Love's  fingers  and  his  wings, 

falling  lightly  and  massily  upon  his  shoulders, 
lay  there  in  changeful  curls.  His  flesh  was  like 
a  white  rose  where  habitually  clothed,  like  a  red 
rose  upon  his  cheeks.  A  certain  posture  of  the 
head — when  thrown  slightly  back,  pommettes 
smiling,  and  lips  not  parted  but  raised  at  the 
corners — seen  in  profile,  was  irresistible  to  man 
and  woman.  His  breath  came  from  his  mouth 
as  odour  from  the  calyx  of  a  flower.  There  was 
no  flaw  in  his  voice,  which  never  failed  to  be 
sweet,  to  what  depths  of  passion  soever  it  fell, 
and  tender,  like  that  of  one  who  is  dying  for 
love.  So  modulated  his  laughter,  you  could 
almost  make  words  of  it. 
From  boyhood  he  had  made  verses,  and 


FELIX  141 

would  spend  hours  in  moulding  the  sense  and 
motion  of  a  line.  It  was  his  delight,  to  choose 
a  plain,  common  word,  and  fitting  it  into  a 
line,  to  evoke  its  divinity.  He  used  to  say 
that  every  word  was  divine.  The  same  youth, 
Lucian,  was  his  best  friend,  and  favourite  poet. 
Many  a  time  and  oft,  they  sat  up  so  late,  their 
cheeks  were  blanched  a  little,  and  they  saw  the 
labourers  pacing  heavily  to  work;  then  retired, 
to  sleep  until  music  awakened  them.  After  a 
cold  swim,  a  suspicion  of  fruit  and  milk,  and  a 
race  in  the  quiet  air,  they  returned,  to  ivory 
tables  upheld  by  rods  of  glass,  with  gold  feet, 
and  thereon  the  choicest  fruits,  from  vine,  tree, 
and  bush;  and  milk,  and  red  or  amber  wine, 
and  spring  water  in  goblets,  whose  crystal 
stained  the  pure  liquid.  Then  recumbent,  they 
hearkened  to  sweet,  passionless  boys'  voices, 
or  courted  silence  until  they  were  giddy  at  the 
precipices  to  which  it  brought  them ;  or  laughed 
as  they  saw  in  mirrors,  through  minute  gaps, 
left  by  the  cooling  vanes  that  revolved  outside, 
the  ugly  labourers  fall  swooning  or  dead,  from 
heat,  from  slipping  masonry,  or  from  the  fangs 
of  beasts  they  were  taming  for  the  pleasure  of 
Felix.  Sometimes  they  sipped  dark,  poisonous- 


142  FELIX 

looking  draughts,  auburn  or  purple  coloured, 
from  the  cups  of  lilies.  Next,  the  singing  boys 
danced,  scattering  the  delicatest  perfumes  from 
all  their  limbs.  In  the  suspended  mirrors  a 
painter's  line  and  colour  might  be  seen  develop- 
ing on  canvases  that  were  far  off.  .  .  . 

They  talked  of  magic,  alchemy,  astrology, 
divinations,  and  music;  and  mixed  with  their 
talk  of  draughts  that  should  give  immortality 
were  thoughts  of  a  subtle  fatal  draught  by 
which  they  should  die  "  exquisite  deaths." 
In  that  very  hour  they  trembled  at  a  great, 
distant  cry,  a  cry  that  stabbed  them  with  its 
appeal.  So  they  bade  the  musicians  play  again. 
But  the  cry  penetrated  like  a  blood  spot  on 
some  choice  embroidery.  All  day  long,  sage 
chemists  were  busy  in  subterranean  vaults, 
experimenting  upon  animals  of  every  kind. 
These  creatures  were  forced  to  take  draughts, 
and  the  effect,  the  convulsions,  the  length  of 
their  agony,  the  cries,  the  attitudes  when  dead, 
were  all  carefully  written  down.  Something 
that  should  kill  rapidly  and  leave  the  body  as  if 
asleep  was  sought,  or  cause  a  slow  dissolution 
of  the  senses  one  by  one,  painlessly.  Anything 
that  might  soil  the  sweet  flesh  or  strain  the 


FELIX  143 

features,  or  in  any  way  fret  the  last  repose,  was 
at  once  dismissed. 

Felix  himself  looked  far  from  death.  That 
mettled  freshness  of  his  brain  was  physical,  as 
much  as  the  pride  of  his  limbs.  On  death  he 
doted  merely  as  a  "  romantic  "  contrast  with 
the  life  which  the  serenity  of  his  health  seemed 
ready  to  prolong  for  ever. 

At  his  command  a  chosen  maiden,  pale  and 
drooping  from  the  vales,  or  impetuous  and  red 
from  the  mountains,  came  in,  on  certain  days, 
ushered  by  grimacing  blacks,  as  the  evening  star 
appears  among  the  first  dragon  clouds  that 
night  sends  forth  against  it.  Felix  bowed  low 
to  her  several  times.  He  complimented  her 
ivory  features,  the  lustre  of  her  eyes,  her  dewy 
voice,  the  fragrance  of  her  garlands.  Then  he 
guided  her  from  place  to  place  about  the  ornate, 
lonely  chambers,  and  let  her  taste  their  marvels. 
But  the  end  was  always  the  same.  "  Thou  art 
very  beautiful,"  he  said  to  her.  "  Less  beautiful 
than  thou,  my  Felix  !"  said  Lucian,  the  poet. 
So  the  prince  went  with  her  to  the  palace  gate- 
way, loaded  her  with  presents  and  praise,  and 
bade  her  farewell.  "  Less  beautiful  than  thou  !" 
echoed  Felix. 


144  FELIX 

It  was  at  such  a  time,  if  at  all,  that  a  shadow 
fell  upon  his  cheeks  a  moment,  saddening  the 
roses  there.  But  very  soon  he  would  be  as 
blithe  as  ever,  with  his  verses  "  On  Tears," 
though  he  never  shed  one;  "  On  the  Pains  of 
Separation,"  though  he  loved  truly  none  save 
himself;  on  "  The  Skull,"  though  he  knew  not 
what  it  was  like.  The  verses  were  carved  by 
his  slaves  in  marble,  straight  from  his  lips, 
after  long  thought. 

Should  melody  cloy,  Felix  and  Lucian  fled 
again  to  the  tables.  This  time  the  flesh  of 
daintiest  birds,  of  strange  beasts,  of  deep  sea 
and  river  fish,  covered  the  board.  A  servant 
entered,  who  carefully  blindfolded  them  with 
silken  bandages,  perfumed  so  as  to  overpower 
the  savour  of  the  flesh.  For  they  never  saw 
the  meats,  nor  smelt  them.  Sometimes  they 
spent  whole  days  blindfolded  so,  or  moved 
about  only  at  night,  and  thus  the  other  senses 
were  perhaps  more  profoundly  stirred.  How 
much  more  impressive,  they  remarked,  was  the 
autumn  wind  in  birch-trees  at  night,  if  the  eyes 
were  closed  !  "It  were  sweet,"  one  day  said 
Felix,  "  to  be  blind,  for  I  think  the  joys  of  touch 
and  smell  would  be  pro  founder,  that  way." 


FELIX  145 

After  the  warm,  scented  bath,  whose  sunlit 
waves  wrought  wonders  on  the  marble,  it  was 
pleasant  to  sip  hot  draughts,  followed  by 
sherbet,  out  in  the  tempered  splendour  under- 
neath the  cedars.  In  the  distance  a  Circean 
lady  would  be  seen,  swaying  over  her  music. 
She  could  have  made  them  swine.  She  made 
them  gods.  And  when,  in  a  blue  room,  half 
darkened,  with  wide  windows  opening  upon  a 
starry  river  and  sombre  trees,  they  sat  and  still 
hearkened,  they  felt  as  dead  leaves  or  as  clouds 
in  the  hands  of  that  strong  harmony  that  rose 
and  fell,  tender,  minatory,  turbulent,  hypnotic, 
vast.  .  .  . 

If  it  rained  at  sunset,  half  an  hour  later, 
in  a  crystal,  beamless  light,  they  looked  long 
at  the  daffodils  in  virgin  grass  under  black  elms. 
Or  in  a  delicate  going  down  of  the  sun,  when  a 
green  colour  as  on  the  sunless  half  of  a  peach 
overspreads  the  north  in  bands,  they  read  the 
poets.  Or  long  after  nightfall  they  watched  the 
west,  where  there  tarried  a  pane  of  white  sky, 
that  resisted  the  showers  and  perforated  the 
clouds,  though  it  gave  no  light.  Or  they  sat  in  a 
seaside  palace  and  marvelled  at  the  galloping 
breakers  and  the  great  ships  foundering.  Then 

10 


146  FELIX 

to  bed,  through  echoing  corridors,  full  of  the 
scent  of  flowers,  and  of  spices — cinnamon  from 
India  and  the  Pacific,  cassia  from  China,  cam- 
phor from  Japan,  cloves  and  anise,  and  faded 
petals  of  pomegranate.  For  these  a  thousand 
men  and  a  thousand  women  laboured  with  tears, 
upon  the  sea  or  in  terrific  foreign  forests,  or  in 
sweet  home  valleys  among  the  dew  on  briers 
and  grasses.  A  thousand  more  strained  for 
an  early  grave,  at  work  on  the  palaces  that 
rose  beside  the  most  crystal  rivers,  in  the  re- 
motest and  loveliest  woods,  by  the  bluest  seas. 
Thousands  that  knew  not  Felix  brought  ex- 
quisite feathers  from  Africa  and  the  Pacific, 
rubies  and  lapis  lazuli  from  Tartary,  oranges 
and  citrons  and  lemons  from  Spain  and  Persia, 
dates  from  Mesopotamia,  flowers  from  Japan. 

Felix  derided  the  far-heard  curses  of  these 
people. 

Had  he  not  a  myriad  troops,  accomplished 
in  dazzling  armour,  sagely  captained,  and  all  of 
a  bodily  vigour  and  grace  approved  by  himself  ? 

He  knew  no  fear. 

The  people's  murmurs  added  but  a  remote 
thundering  bass  to  the  great  music  which  all 
his  days  he  loved  and  listened  to. 


FELIX  147 

However,  this  bass  by  degrees  became  a 
discordant  part.  It  rose  above  the  delicate 
trebles  and  languid  tenors;  and  he  would  fain 
have  retreated  unto  where  the  harmony  would 
again  have  been  perfect.  But  presently  they 
saw  sharp  flames  devouring  the  sky  at  the 
horizon,  and  clear  even  at  sunset.  Some  of  his 
warriors  arrived  with  ugly  purple  stains  across 
their  armour:  one  of  them  never  came  back.  .  .  . 
The  season  was  autumn,  fast  changing  to 
winter.  In  the  wood  the  leaves  twitched. 
Winds  blew  in  gusty  circles  and  on  the  water 
left  traces  like  a  serpent's.  Now  and  then  a 
leaf  dropped,  and  trundled  along  the  ground, 
hopping,  quaking,  never  at  rest.  There  was  a 
gloom  about  the  forest  that  inspired  a  vague 
foreboding.  Thunder  or  the  echoes  of  it  more 
than  once  skirted  the  bounds  of  hearing. 

One  day  a  snake,  only  half  torpid,  was  found 
in  a  fruit-basket  meant  for  the  palace. 

Servants  at  very  distant  stations  began  to 
disobey.  A  spice  galleon  was  decoyed  to  a  reef, 
and  everything  on  board  was  sunk  with  the 
wreck. 

A  slave,  in  the  palace  itself,  killed  another, 
who  had  undertaken  a  peculiarly  humiliating 


148  FELIX 

task  at  the  command  of  Lucian.  He  was  re- 
warded in  the  dungeon  by  the  fate  of  the 
beasts.  But  the  experiment  was  frustrate. 

Something  was  amiss  with  Lucian  even.  It 
was  autumn  with  him,  though  his  locks  were 
glossy  black  and  his  feet  rapid  in  the  dance. 
He  wrote,  forsooth, 

Lo !  in  the  heart  of  summer  buds — the  worm, 

and  though  he  laughed,  a  sigh  followed. 

Felix  was  a  little  anxious,  thinking  of  the 
experiments.  Once,  indeed,  he  descended  to 
watch  the  poisoning  of  a  favourite  panther  that 
was  ageing.  "I  would  die  an  exquisite  death," 
he  said.  Yet  the  experiments  were  very  barren 
so  far. 

A  little  after  this,  news  came  that  the  people 
had  created  chiefs  of  their  own  and  were  clearly 
marching  toward  the  palace.  There  was  no 
doubt  of  it.  The  villagers  on  their  line  of  march 
made  no  resistance.  A  skirmishing  company 
of  royal  soldiers  fell  into  their  hands  and  was 
destroyed,  to  a  man. 

By  Lucian's  order,  the  music  in  the  palace 
was  loudened,  and  now  continued  day  and  night. 

At  last,  in  the  mirror,  the  king  himself  saw 


FELIX  149 

a  buckler  flash.  There  were  swords  in  the  wood 
near  by.  So  the  royal  army  surrounded  the 
palace  with  their  lines;  and  the  siege  began. 

Within,  a  picture  absorbed  every  effort  of 
the  artists,  and  Felix  watched  it  coming  as  it 
were  nearer  and  nearer  each  day — or  as  if  the 
painters  did  but  uncover  the  details  artfully 
one  by  one.  A  set  of  verses,  by  himself  and 
Lucian,  was  nearly  finished ;  the  slave  had  begun 
to  carve  them  on  marble.  Felix  and  Lucian 
had  sunshine  all  day  in  the  purple  winter 
chamber :  and  as  the  siege  developed,  the  season 
sank  into  a  wonderful  golden  calm,  pleasanter 
than  all  those  remembered  by  king  or  poet. 
Shrieks  of  pain,  explosions  and  the  following 
crash  and  fall,  the  shouts  of  rage  or  exhortation, 
were  the  same  when  they  reached  the  secluded 
chamber;  they  became  a  mere  ghostly  tapping 
at  window  or  wall.  Roused  by  a  louder  tap, 
the  king  opened  the  door  and  looking  out  saw 
nothing.  "  Ah  me  !"  he  said,  "  who  was  that  ?" 
With  white  face,  a  slave  answered:  "  The  rebels 
give  way." 

A  great  defensive  bastion  had  fallen,  and  one 
of  the  rebel  chieftains  killed,  with  difficulty,  at 
the  palace-door. 


150  FELIX 

The  music  rose  louder  still,  though  Lucian 
foresaw  that  in  spite  of  all  things  the  sterner 
music  of  the  conflict  must  triumph. 

Not  long  afterwards,  the  chemist  sent  a  slave 
to  announce  that  his  wildest  hopes  had  been 
fulfilled.  "Ralph,"  he  explained,  "lies  dead 
like  a  statue."  The  corpse  was  brought  up, 
and  it  was  a  noble  sight.  Ralph  was  a  famous 
rebel  captured  lately:  his  white  limbs  were 
crossed  and  somewhat  bent,  without  a  stain; 
his  back  was  upright,  and  his  head,  though 
leaning  sideways  lather,  so  that  his  hair  lay  all 
on  one  shoulder,  seemed  to  sleep,  very  peace- 
fully; his  eyes  were  half  opened,  of  a  sparkling 
grey.  "  My  good  chemist  henceforth  shall 
rest  until  death,  in  luxury,"  exclaimed  the 
delighted  king. 

In  the  night,  however,  the  body  vanished, 
and  next  day  led  once  more  the  rebel  onset. 

The  good  weather  continued,  and  the  delicate 
poplar  near  the  prince's  window  had  not  let 
fall  one  leaf,  though  every  one  was  of  gold. 
So  "  Come,"  said  the  king  one  day,  in  his 
naturally  even  mood,  "  come,  let  us  ascend  to 
the  armoury  of  my  forefathers,  the  kings. 
This  fellow  will  show  us  the  way,  which  I  forget ; 


FELIX  151 

for  since  my  father  carried  me  there  and  put  old 
Stephen's  helmet  upon  my  head — it  covered 
my  shoulders  and  I  screamed  in  the  darkness — 
I  have  never  returned.  At  that  time,  he  said 
he  would  wish  me  to  die  with  that  on  my  head 
— the  dear,  brave  madman  !  he  died  at  forty, 
and  his  black  hair  was  always  grizzled.  Come, 
dearest  Lucian." 

The  slave  walked  first,  with  ponderous  keys; 
Felix  came  after,  bandying  a  tune;  the  poet 
far  behind,  at  a  pensive  pace,  with  bended  neck. 
At  the  door  they  paused  all  together,  and  silent. 
The  key  would  not  be  turned  in  the  lock. 

"  Burst  the  door,"  said  the  king. 

They  burst  the  door,  but  all  saving  Felix 
drew  back.  The  armoury  was  pitch-black,  hard 
wings  beat  their  eyes,  soft  wings  lifted  the  dust 
of  years.  A  bat  squeaked.  Owls  hooted.  A 
starling,  perched  somewhere,  called  out:  "  This 
is  the  day  \" 

"  I  taught  her  that  myself,"  said  Felix. 

'  The  day  of  victory  !"  continued  the  starling. 

Presently  bat  and  owl  were  gone,  and  the 
slave  went  forward  and  let  in  the  day  by  a 
narrow  window,  then  took  the  coverings  one 
by  one  from  the  armour,  that  began  to  gleam 


152  FELIX 

in  a  lengthening  line,  as  when  lamps  are  lit 
beside  a  great  river  at  nightfall. 

There  was  tawny  blood  on  one  sword,  which 
the  king  sat  down  to  clean,  while  the  slave 
told  the  legend  of  this  and  that  piece  of  armour. 
To  Felix  it  was  a  somewhat  wearisome  roll; 
and  he  scarce  looked  up  from  the  sword,  until 
the  slave  said  sonorously:  "  These  greaves  your 
father  wore  when  he  broke  the  pirate  legions. 
This  helmet  was  cloven  on  your  grandfather's 
head  at  the  same  battle.  The  breastplates 

here "  Felix  heard  no  more,  except  the 

slave's  admiration — "What  a  blow!  how  vast 
a  shoulder !" 

Outside,  there  was  a  shout  of  victory,  to  which 
the  starling  answered,  in  delight:  "  This  is  the 
day  of  victory. ' '  Doors  were  being  forced,  below. 

The  sword  flashed  as  Felix  laid  it  down. 
"  Save  yourself  !"  he  cried  to  the  slave:  "  But 
no,  stay:  close  the  door:  bar  it  with  your 
arm:  and  do  you,  Lucian,  Lucian,  my  dearest 
friend,  bring  me  my  father's  armour.  Come, 
my  poet !  we  shall  die  an  exquisite  death. 
You  are  grandly  dressed  as  you  are:  that  azure 
garment  well  becomes  you.  But  bring  me  the 
armour  quickly  !" 


FELIX  153 

He  put  it  on,  carefully,  slowly,  like  a  brides- 
maid dressing  before  a  mirror. 

"  Now  the  crown.  .  .  .  That  is  well,"  said 
Felix. 

Lucian  praised  him,  and  he  seated  himself  upon 
the  throne,  the  sword  across  his  knees  unscab- 
barded.  One  delicate  hand  was  free,  a  mailed 
gauntlet  upon  the  other.  His  flushed  cheek  and 
winged  eyebrows  were  just  visible.  In  that 
attire,  he  looked  like  Cupid,  masked  as  Mars, 
and  far  unlike  his  father,  the  tall,  straight  hero — 
with  a  black  beard,  grim  and  like  a  grave- 
digger's  shovel. 

By  this  time  the  enemy  was  at  the  door.  They 
demanded  a  surrender,  and  hearing  no  reply  ? 
burst  open  the  door.  The  slave  lay  writhing. 
The  invaders  could  see  nothing,  and  drew  back 
in  a  sort  of  fear.  Then  first  one,  afterwards 
another,  and  finally  a  host,  crept  in  and  lined 
the  wall  opposite  to  Felix  and  Lucian.  Both 
were  silent;  though  now  and  then  the  king 
whispered  a  jest.  Their  calmness  was  torturing 
the  rebels,  who  stirred  neither  hand  nor  foot, 
when  their  captain  bade  an  archer  take  his 
stand  over  against  the  throne  and  shoot.  The 
string  had  ceased  to  quiver.  .  .  . 


154  FELIX 

Felix  turned  to  his  friend,  saying,  "  Would 
that  Clement  were  here,  with  his  canvas  !  I 
have  a  mind  to  ask  the  rebel's  leave."  He 
laughed.  "  But  now,"  added  he,  "  take  the 
chisel  and  finish  this  verse." 

"  Your  rhyme  is  at  fault,  my  Felix.  I  swear 
your  rhyme  is  at  fault,"  said  Lucian. 

Here  the  rebels  gave  a  cry.  The  archer  had 
fired,  striking  the  king  upon  the  temple,  so 
that  his  head  fell  upon  his  shoulder.  Again 
he  fired;  the  arrow  tore  its  way  through  the 
poet's  silken  raiment  into  his  side,  and  caused 
a  groan.  The  rebels  had  now  come  forward. 

"  Now,  by  Apollo  !"  murmured  Lucian,  "  you 
must  not  rhyme  Romeo  with  row;  you  must  not, 
Felix." 

(1899.) 


BRONWEN 


XII 
BRONWEN:  A  WELSH  IDYLL 

IT  was  cool  dawn  on  the  summits  of  the  hills. 
The  daisy  was  unawakened  yet  in  the  glen,  and 
a  light  mist  slept  across  the  fields  beneath.  Low 
down  in  the  rosy  drift  of  sunrise  hung  the  new 
moon,  on  tip-toe,  as  it  seemed,  for  flight ;  a  brief 
time  only  it  hung;  and  at  length  it  dropped  as 
the  light  added,  on  the  purple  peals  of  comfrey, 
bell  to  bell.  Now,  too,  lark  met  nightingale 
for  the  last  time  of  the  year  in  song.  For  the 
season  was  the  midst  of  June.  It  was  the  time 
of  the  white  wild  rose  and  the  purple  cranesbill, 
and  the  streaked  convolvulus  braiding  dry 
paths. 

And  already  Bronwen  is  in  the  grass  beside 
her  home.  Lonely  and  content,  she  leans  with 
a  whisper  of  singing  over  her  sweet  toil,  looking 
up  seldom,  and  then  only  to  number  the  stars 
that  die  one  by  one  in  the  hot  sky,  or  to  answer 
the  honied  tones  of  the  swallows  passing  her 


158  BRONWEN 

head.  Or  she  plucks  a  blossom  for  her  brow. 
So,  all  the  time,  she  is  happy,  thinking  sweet 
thoughts  in  her  loneliness,  and  in  the  shade  of 
her  own  wild  hair.  For  about  her  neck  the 
weight  of  yellow  hair  dropped  and  spread,  and 
upon  the  flowers,  as  she  bent  shoulder-deep 
in  the  June  grass.  Like  marble  is  her  form 
as  she  stoops  still  at  her  toil :  like  a  cloud  when- 
ever she  turns  in  her  place.  Her  skin  is  like 
a  lily;  but  the  summer  has  found  out  the  rosy 
life  of  her  veins;  and  Bronwen  is  like  the 
anemone  of  March.  She  is  beautiful.  But  she 
is  alone.  Perhaps  the  light  poplar-tree  beside 
the  mere  longs  to  throw  its  shadow  in  the 
crystal;  with  her  was  it  even  so.  And  the 
agrimony  wands  have  taken  fire  in  the  green 
grass. 

So  Bronwen  sings  and  toils;  and  now,  as  she 
sits,  a  white  star  broadens  and  grows  bright 
towards  her  out  of  the  east,  like  Mercury 
kindling  through  a  purple  that  deepens  on  to 
moonrise.  She  has  seen  this  star  and  looks. 
What  is  it  ?  Sometimes  it  burns,  and  some- 
times it  fades  from  sight ;  yet  it  is  too  constant 
for  a  sea  wave  catching  the  sunbeam  at  slowly 
returning  intervals.  A  star  of  heaven  it  can 


BRONWEN  159 

scarce  be.  Nor  certainly  is  it  a  swell  of  the 
crystal  air  of  summer  flashing  as  oftentimes  it 
will  like  a  shifted  shield.  How  like  it  is  to  the 
shimmer  of  battle  steel !  But  then  it  moves 
slowly  and  alone  and  steadily;  and  for  a  time 
there  is  peace  between  the  Round  Table  and  the 
world.  A  shield,  nevertheless,  it  is,  coming 
to  her  out  of  the  silver  distance  of  dawn. 

Looking  wistfully  and  placidly  toward  the 
shield,  like  a  child  staring  at  vacancy,  Bronwen 
pauses  but  a  moment ;  then  gathers  up  the  web 
and  instruments  of  her  toil  into  her  grasp;  and 
so  vanishes  through  the  purple  gloom  of  the 
ivy  at  her  porch.  Nor  does  she  stay  at  the  wide 
opened  door,  though  the  shield  flash  to  her  from 
the  foot  of  the  hill. 

Knight  and  steed  and  shield  are  crossing  the 
grass  beside  the  home. 

A  bough  from  the  fresh  wood  is  in  his  hand, 
drooping  across  the  saddle.  His  lips  murmur 
with  song  momentarily,  but  mostly  are  still. 
And  he  comes  out  of  the  fastnesses  of  dawn  clad 
in  a  liquid  splendour  as  if  bathed  in  that  pure 
light  which  made  silver  of  the  raindrops  along 
the  moss  of  the  wall.  Eager  to  taste  the  rich 
morning  air,  he  has  doffed  his  helmet,  thus  dis- 


160  BRONWEN 

closing  his  face.  Mark  the  placidity  with  which 
dawn  has  moulded  it,  and  the  keen  lines  drawn 
by  the  desire  of  all  the  features  to  drink  to  the 
uttermost  what  the  hour  gives.  Save  behind, 
where  it  will  escape  mercurially  from  the  clasped 
helm,  his  gold  hair  is  close.  Black,  however,  is 
the  hue  of  his  brows,  and  arched  in  tranquil 
purity.  At  first  glimpse,  everything  shows 
immense  capacity  for  delight;  at  the  next,  a 
tyrannous  self-mastery,  a  strenuous  content 
with  disappointment,  which  would  be  sad  but 
at  such  an  hour.  But  his  face  ripples  and  shifts 
with  expression  in  the  manner  of  pools  where 
gusts  chase  the  lines  of  waves  with  changing 
shade  and  light.  By  the  fashion  of  it,  he  has 
listened  to  many  sounds,  bitter  and  sweet. 
Sights  without  number,  too,  he  has  seen,  many 
a  sunrising  and  sunsetting. 

Now  he  halts  with  a  happy  sigh  like  one 
baiting  at  a  well-known  door. 

So  he  stands  beside  Bronwen's  home ;  he  gazes, 
and  for  him  the  flowers  are  shining  from  the 
garden,  for  him  the  dark  ivy  leaf  turns  to  silver 
as  it  winks  in  its  own  massed  glooms.  Thus  he 
waits.  Waits  ?  But  he  knows  not  that  he  waits, 
nor  why  he  unlinks  his  steel  and  stops  his  horse. 


BRONWEN  161 

Meantime,  like  one  who  goes  on  an  errand 
long  before  appointed,  Bronwen  has  stepped  to 
her  bower  and  laid  by  her  toil.     Quietly  and 
without  haste,  carefully  as  if  she  robed  herself 
for  bridal,  she  has  put  off  her  antique  silk  in 
exchange  for  a  festival  raiment  of  white,  drawing 
it  from  the  spicy  darkness  with  the  joy  of  a 
village  maiden  on  her  rare  holiday.     For  one 
minute  only  she  stays  proudly  in  her  loneliness, 
without  glass  or  mirror.     Then  she  sweeps  to 
the  gate,  to  meet  a  guest  that  might  have  been 
accustomed    and   well   known.     She   is   there. 
And  how  her  arms  rise  in  unconscious  welcome 
as  she  notes  the  smile  meeting  her  own  at  their 
first   sight  !     "A   fair   journey,   Sir   Knight !" 
cries  Bronwen,  "  and  may  our  country  be  kind 
to   you."     He   laughs,   and   in   reply,    "Good 
day,  lovely  maiden!"  cries  he,  "and  may  men 
be  kind  to  you,  as  Heaven  is  kind.     Wish  you 
happy,  I  cannot ;  for  I  see  you  full  of  the  summer 
and  the  fair  weather  and  the  dawn  and  this 
sweet  place,  happy  thus  beyond  the  might  of  my 
wish."     Joyously  she  answers  him.     "It  is  fair, 
indeed,  on  my  hillside  this  month,  but  lonely. 
Many   days   I   see   naught   that   moves.     The 
knights    are   in    the    wars   beyond    Gwynedd. 


i62  BRONWEN 

How,  then,  has  a  hoof  from  Camelot  reached  me 
and  stayed  even  a  moment?  On  our  festival 
day,  too,  finding  me  thus  alone,  the  festival  at 
the  quieting  of  the  nightingale  in  the  hazels 
beside  the  brown  Gwili — the  beautiful  Gwili !" 
Here  she  follows  the  swift's  flight  as  it  reels  to 
the  Gwili  river  in  the  south.  "I  am  indeed 
from  Camelot,  and  in  peace,  happily.  On  a 
blithe  errand,  too,  I  come:  to  carry  a  missive 
of  betrothal  between  a  lord  of  the  white  south 
shore  and  a  princess  of  this  land.  I  shall  have 
toil  to  find  her;  I  have  seen  none  for  leagues. 
Lovely  she  must  be,  if  you  are  one  of  her 
maidens."  So  speaks  Sir  Agravaine.  "  Come  ! 
you  will  never  find  her.  Let  me  have  the 
missive.  I  promise,  I  will  guard  it  with  care 
from  messenger  so  welcome  as  yourself.  For 
you  would  never  find  her.  The  land,  as  you  say, 
is  lonely.  Besides,  for  to-day,  you  shall  be  my 
guest:  it  is  our  wont:  never  would  June  be  kind 
to  us  if  we  forgot  her  festival,  which,  being 
alone,  I  was  like  to  do."  He  answers  quickly, 
"  On  such  an  errand,  you  must  needs  be  a  sure 
messenger.  And,  as  to  your  asking,  Lady ! 
I  am  glad  to  stay  on  my  march.  When  others 
are  thus  arranging  their  pleasures  through  us, 


BRONWEN  163 

surely  their  ministers  may  rejoice  together. 
And  may  I  see  you  at  Camelot  for  the  bridal !" 
She  looks  again  to  the  Gwili.  "  As  to  that  last, 
who  knows  what  our  Princess  will  grant  ?  Be- 
sides, I  love  my  home:  there  I  was  born,  there 
I  ply  my  sweet  toil :  my  mother,  too,  sleeps  there 
in  the  sun  even  now;  and  with  her  my  baby 
sister,  who  cries  now — hark  !  Let  me  go.  I 
will  haste.  Now  also  I  will  hide  the  scrolls 
safely;  for  a  day  they  shall  stay  closed;  we  will 
not  risk  chance  under  such  heavens.  See ! 
the  lark  is  weary  with  over- sweet.  He  does  but 
flit  singing  from  tuft  to  tuft:  yet  I  think  the 
voice  sweeter  thus  than  in  soaring.  Let  me 
guard,  also,  that  fresh  bough  in  your  hand,  lest 
the  sun  looks  on  withered  green  before  it  is 
midsummer."  So  Sir  Agravaine  gives  her  the 
bough.  "  You  shall  take  the  larch  sprig,"  he 
cries,  "  but  at  my  gift.  Keep  it.  I  wait." 

She  runs:  and  when  she  is  lost  to  his  eyes, 
he  rapidly  lightens  himself  of  the  great  steel 
and  stalls  his  horse  on  the  dry  brown  beneath 
the  beech.  A  while  he  stays  beside  the  crystal 
beginnings  of  a  stream,  his  soul  swayed  and 
mazed  by  the  motion  of  the  waters,  when, 
swift  as  a  great  liking,  she  returns  to  him.  The 


164  BRONWEN 

green  larch  twig  is  at  her  girdle.  Let  the  June 
sun  be  tender  to  it ! 

Together  they  seek  the  alders  of  Gwili,  the 
hazels  of  its  raised  banks,  and  the  windy  gorse 
beyond.  Talking  sweetly,  and  sweetly  making 
silence,  they  go.  At  one  time  she  points  him 
the  gathered  children  plucking  flowers  in  the 
field.  "  How  they  hasten,  leaving  half  the  host 
of  flowers,  in  their  gay  strife  !  They  cross  the 
field,  passing  and  repassing  one  another,  and 
again  overtaken,  carelessly  and  hastily,  like 
a  flock  of  starlings."  And  one  of  the  sweet 
small  voices  from  the  south  sings  hidden  in  the 
green  leaves  overhanging  Gwili.  They  reach 
the  moneywort  gold  of  the  banks,  and  her  first 
care  is  to  bury  his  armour  in  flowers.  "  There  ! 
You  shall  not  go  from  me  until  they  fade." 
So  she  cries.  "  I  have  had  a  care;  be  sure; 
the  alders  of  the  Gwili  are  close,  and  the  sun 
will  be  tender  to  these,  ay  !  and  to  me."  White 
wild  rose,  therefore,  heavy  purple  crane's-bill, 
gold  and  green  gorse  picked  easily  by  fine 
fingers,  yellow  flag,  honeysuckle,  and  all  the 
heaped  sweets  of  summer,  dim  the  great  steel 
which  blood  only  has  dimmed  before  this. 

They  try  together  the  forgotten  path  of  the 


BRONWEN  165 

ancients,  or  pass  where  only  the  children  of 
future  time  will  again  make  a  way.  Now  they 
stop  to  look  on  the  sparkling  fords,  or  where 
girls  dip  pitchers  in  the  fast  water;  and  the 
water  shines  as  it  drops  from  the  mouth  of  the 
pitcher;  and  the  girls  laugh  as  they  wait.  Now 
they  see  a  lonely  child  in  robes  of  white  sailing 
flat  reeds  for  boats  in  the  reaches  of  calm. 
And  far  off,  at  intervals  so  long  that  each  is 
forgotten  before  one  succeeds,  great  seas  fall 
heavily  on  the  shore.  Masts  cross  and  interlace 
on  the  shining  sea.  At  times  they  see  a  white 
cloud  scale  the  immense  sky,  hover  thinned 
almost  to  nothing  by  the  sun,  and  dip  to  hills 
and  sea,  leaving  the  sky  bare  for  hours.  Once, 
as  she  threads  a  thicket  of  fern,  she  cries  aloud 
with  a  cry  of  pain.  He  is  with  her.  "  Is  it 
a  snake  ?"  She  has  crushed  a  flower.  And  so 
they  pass:  and  the  dew  is  dry  almost  in  the 
coolest  hollows  of  the  wood. 

Sweetly  they  talk  of  the  sweets  of  silence, 
they  brood  sweetly  in  silence  over  the  sweets 
of  past  speech.  They  are  happy.  She  shows 
him  the  lonely  footprints  of  her  childish  walks, 
or  fears  for  her  baby  sister,  or  laughs  at  to-day. 
As  they  pause  together  on  the  green  steeps,  he 


166  BRONWEN 

names  to  her  knight  after  knight  travelling 
the  pass  with  song.  Here,  men  are  charging 
beneath  them,  but  as  in  dream:  they  see  only 
the  flash  of  armour.  Here  white  maidens 
dance,  but  as  in  dream.  Masts,  clouds,  hosts, 
all  move  like  stars. 

Dusk  mellows  into  evening,  and  the  lily  over 
the  steel  smells  once  more  of  the  earth  from 
which  it  came,  pleasant  in  death.  The  moon 
rounds  the  forest  slowly  from  tree  to  tree. 
The  lonely  night  passes,  while  the  home  of 
Bronwen  paves  the  rising  white  footsteps  of 
the  moon.  And  the  knight  rides  quietly  into 
the  blue  west:  and  Bronwen  is  lost  awhile  to 
the  south  wind:  and  the  bee  swoons  in  the 
meadowsweet  beside  the  brook  Gwili.  But, 
as  they  tell,  Bronwen  the  Princess,  on  Mid- 
summer Day,  married  Sir  Agravaine  at  Camelot, 
before  the  larch  spray  had  lost  scent  in  her 
girdle. 

(1903.) 


MIKE 


XIII 
MIKE 

FOR  two  or  three  years  it  had  begun  to  be 
assumed  and  the  probability  even  mentioned 
aloud  that  Mike  would  some  day  die.  Not 
that  there  was  any  evidence  that  would  bear 
sifting  by  one  who  was  intimate  with  him. 
He  was  strong  and  hearty,  and  never  had  any 
wretchedness  except  when  I  threw  a  stick  at 
him  in  anger.  Looking  back,  we  could  say 
that  his  life's  thread  was  spun  "  round  and  full 
out  of  their  softest  and  their  whitest  wool " 
by  the  Fates.  He  could  still  walk  as  far  as  ever. 
If  I  travelled  twenty  or  thirty  miles  over  the 
Downs  he  would  walk  and  run  two  or  three 
times  as  far.  For  he  was  nearly  always  hunting 
at  full  speed,  visible  or  audible  half  a  mile  away, 
or  he  was  examining  every  inch  of  the  path, 
seeking  an  excuse  to  be  off;  and  if  that  was  not 
to  be  found  he  would  look  up  to  see  whether 
I  was  thinking  or  otherwise  inattentive  to  him, 

169 


170  MIKE 

and  then,  his  thievish  thighs  endued  suddenly 
with  all  the  wolf,  he  was  off  at  his  best  speed 
which  no  shout  could  stop.  In  the  rapture 
of  the  hunt  his  bark  became  a  song,  but  as  a 
rule  it  was  hard  and  explosive. 

Seven  years  before,  when  he  became  mine  for 
five  shillings — he  was  a  stray — I  used  in  my 
ignorance  to  beat  him  for  hunting.  Never 
having  thought  about  it,  I  took  it  for  granted 
that  the  habit  was  bad  because  dangerous  and 
forbidden,  and  also  a  piece  of  wantonness  and 
defiant  self-indulgence.  I  did  not  cure  him; 
I  did  not  even  make  him  dislike  me;  and  there- 
fore I  began  to  laugh  at  the  folly  of  lashing 
myself  into  a  fury  at  the  vice  of  disobedience 
under  the  pretext  of  improving  the  morals  of 
an  excellent  dog.  He  forgave  me  so  readily 
that  it  took  some  time  for  me  to  forgive  myself. 
And  so  for  seven  years  not  a  day  passed  but 
he  hunted,  and  many  were  his  whole  nights 
spent  in  the  woods.  It  was  he  who  discovered 
for  me  that  a  partridge  is  eatable  in  May.  He 
had  no  evil  conscience  by  nature  or  from  me, 
and  so  was  often  superficially  unwise  in  choosing 
his  bird ;  he  would  make  his  leap  into  the  hedge 
where  the  partridge  lay  when  the  landlord  was 


MIKE  171 

only  a  few  seconds  distant.  But  I  learnt  that 
there  is  a  providence  watching  over  such  simple 
wants.  However  much  the  pheasant  screamed 
as  it  flew  a  few  yards  and  then  dropped  with 
fear  to  run  certain  other  yards  before  the  dog, 
no  harm  came  except  to  the  bird;  as  the  glade 
rang  with  screams  of  alarm  and  yelps  of  delight 
I  tried  to  look  as  if  Mike  was  not  mine;  the 
keeper  was  beneficently  detained  or  deaf. 

He  was  a  magically  fortunate  dog,  and  it  was 
fore-ordained,  that  however  boldly  he  might  be 
leaping  through  a  wood,  he  was  always  to  alight 
with  his  four  feet  clear  of  traps.  Wire  nooses 
he  often  ran  into,  and  many  a  hare  and  rabbit 
he  must  have  saved  by  first  entering  a  snare 
intended  for  them  and  then  freeing  himself  by 
force  or  subtlety,  returning  sometimes  with  the 
wire  and  its  peg  still  fastened  on  his  leg  as  an 
inconvenient  decoration.  As  he  hunted  in  his 
first  year  so  he  did  when  the  judicial  minds, 
who  knew  nothing  of  him  except  what  they 
believe  to  be  common  to  all  dogs,  began  to  aver 
that  he  was  getting  old,  with  a  kind  of  smile 
that  one  so  mighty  and  so  much  vaunted  should 
be  giving  way  before  them.  They  pointed  out 
that  he  was  silvering  everywhere,  that  his  head 


172  MIKE 

was  almost  pure  white,  that  he  lay  dozing  long 
after  the  house  was  astir;  but  I  could  see  no 
real  reason  for  believing  that  this  change  might 
not  go  on,  as  the  phrase  is,  "  for  ever,"  and  then 
when  he  was  all  silver  he  might  have  another 
life  as  a  silver  dog.  So  with  his  teeth.  It  was 
evident  that  the  fangs  which  held  on  to  a  stick 
while  humorists  swung  him  giddily  round  and 
round  were  now  very  much  shorter  (I  concede 
this),  but  still  they  held  on;  he  ate  as  well  as 
ever;  he  drew  blood  from  the  enemy  as  before. 
If  a  stump  was  as  useful  as  the  polished  and 
pointed  fang,  why  should  not  the  bare  gum  of 
the  hero  be  equal  to  the  stump  ? 

Gradually  I  got  into  the  frame  of  mind  which 
was  no  longer  violently  hostile  to  the  proposition 
that  one  day  Mike  would  die.  But  this  did 
not  affect  my  faith;  it  was  an  intellectual 
position  with  no  influence  on  life. 

He  was  no  ordinary  dog.  That,  the  sceptics 
tell  me,  goes  without  saying:  they  argue  that 
because  all  people  regard  their  favourite  dogs 
as  extraordinary,  therefore  all,  including 
Mike,  are  ordinary  and  will  turn  white,  lose 
their  teeth  and  die.  In  the  main  he  was  an 
Irish  terrier.  But  his  hair  was  longer  than 


MIKE  173 

it  "should  have  been/'  and  paler  and  softer. 
His  face  was  more  pointed  than  was  right;  his 
ears,  darker  than  the  rest  of  him  and  silky  (so 
that  a  child  once  fell  asleep  sucking  one),  usually 
hung  down.  His  hindquarters  approached  those 
of  a  collie.  Also  his  tail  when  he  trotted  along 
curled  over  his  back  and  made  children  laugh 
aloud;  but  when  he  was  thinking  about  the 
chase  it  hung  in  a  horizontal  bow;  when  stealing 
away  or  in  full  cry  it  was  held  slightly  lower 
and  no  longer  bent,  and  it  flowed  finely  into  the 
curves  of  his  great  speed.  He  was  eloquent; 
his  yawn  alone,  or  the  twitching  of  his  eyebrows 
as  he  lay  with  head  between  extended  paws, 
expressed  a  score  of  shades  of  emotion.  He 
was  very  excitable,  very  tender-hearted,  very 
pugnacious.  He  was  a  rough,  swift  dog, 
yellowish-brown  above  and  almost  white  be- 
neath, who  was  here,  there  and  everywhere  at 
once,  importunate  yet  usually  welcome  and 
always  forgiven.  He  would  attack  any  dog  of 
equal  or  greater  size,  and  test  the  magnanimity 
of  the  mastiff  and  the  churlishness  of  curs  running 
behind  carriers'  carts.  But  if  a  little  dog 
attacked  him,  he  lifted  up  his  head,  fixed  his 
eyes  on  me,  and  looked  neither  to  left  nor  right, 


174  MIKE 

but  muttered:  "  You  are  neither  dog  nor  cat; 
go  away."  As  for  a  mouse,  he  thought  it  a 
kind  of  beetle,  and  was  curious  but  kind.  He 
would,  however,  kill  wasps,  baring  his  teeth  to 
avoid  the  sting  and  snapping  many  times  before 
the  dividing  blow. 

I  should  like  to  be  able  to  say  that  he  had  no 
tricks.  The  most  splendid  array  of  tricks  only 
gives  colour  to  the  vulgar  notion  that  a  dog  is, 
as  it  were,  a  human  being  manque,  a  kind  of 
pitiable  amusing  creature  unfortunately  denied 
the  gifts  of  Smith  and  Brown.  But  this  loud- 
voiced  dog  of  violent  ways,  who  leaped  through 
a  window  unscathed,  this  fighter,  this  hunter, 
had  been  taught  one  trick  before  I  had  him: 
he  would  beg  when  commanded,  but  unwillingly 
and  badly.  The  postman,  cobbler,  and  parish 
clerk,  a  little  wizened  philosopher,  would  never 
let  him  beg  for  the  lump  of  sugar  which  he 
carried  as  a  daily  gift:  "I  would  never  beg 
myself,"  he  said,  "  and  I  don't  like  to  see  a 
noble  animal  beg  neither."  As  for  faults,  I  think 
he  had  them  all,  the  faults,  that  is,  which  human 
beings  call  such  in  dogs — abruptness,  invariable 
vivacity,  the  appetites  .  .  .;  they  merged 
charmingly  into  his  other  qualities;  isolated, 


MIKE  175 

they  looked  like  faults,  but  good  and  bad  together 
swelled  the  energy,  courage,  and  affection  of 
his  character.  Wondering  wherein  lay  my 
superiority  to  Mike,  I  found  that  it  was  in  my 
power  to  send  him  out  of  the  room — as  it  lay  in 
Alfonso's  power  to  shackle  Tasso. 

Once  in  his  life  he  became,  for  one  hour,  a  lap 
dog.  A  child  had  just  been  born  in  the  house. 
In  the  evening  all  was  very  still  and  silent; 
strangers  flitted  up  and  down  stairs  and  along 
passages;  Mike's  mistress  was  not  to  be  seen 
as  she  lay  motionless  in  bed,  but  from  her  side 
came  cries  which  he  had  never  before  heard — 
therefore  he  leapt  up  into  my  lap  and  would  not 
move  for  an  hour.  Seldom  did  he  do  a  thing 
which  harmonized  so  well  with  those  soft  brown 
eyes  in  a  face  that  was  all  eyebrows. 

So  long  as  he  was  out  of  doors  he  was  inex- 
haustible, and  he  took  every  opportunity  of 
trying  his  strength  by  hunting,  racing  to  and 
fro,  and  asking  even  strangers  (with  head  on 
one  side,  eyes  expectant,  forelegs  stamping  as 
he  alternately  retreated  slowly  and  leapt  for- 
ward) to  throw  him  a  stick  or  stone.  Perhaps 
it  was  in  this  expectant  attitude  that  he  looked 
his  best,  every  limb  braced,  his  steps  firm  and 


176  MIKE 

delicate  as  he  tripped  backward  obliquely,  his 
ears   erect,  his  mouth  open,  and  white  teeth, 
flame-like  tongue  and  brown  eyes  gleaming  to- 
gether as  he  repeated  his  commanding  bark. 
'  What  a  nice  piece  of  lean  bacon  it  would 
make/'  said  a  child,  looking  at  his  tongue.     He 
fought  with  every  inch  of  his  body,  and  his 
movements  were  no  more  to  be  followed  than 
those  of  a  wheel.     His  fury  and  alacrity  never 
ceased  until  intervention  ended  the  fight,  how- 
ever long.     And  as  profound  as  his  energy  was 
his  repose.     After  a  fight  or  a  night  in  the  wood 
he  showed   no   fatigue   until  he  was  indoors. 
Then  he  fell  flat   on  his  side  and  slept  with 
quiverings  and  snuffling  yaps;  and  even  then 
anyone's  movement  of  preparation  for  going  out 
discovered  a  new  fount  of  activity,  and  he  was 
up  and  had  burst  out  of  the  door  before  the  latch 
was  released. 

When  he  was  at  least  ten  years  old  and  looked 
very  white  slipping  through  the  beeches  and 
troubling  the  loves  of  the  foxes  under  a  full  moon 
I  confess  that  even  I  used  sometimes  to  say  that 
I  hoped  he  would  die  in  full  career  with  a  charge 
of  shot  in  his  brain.  He  never  began  to  grow 
stout,  and  was  never  pampered ;  it  could  not  be 


MIKE  177 

thought  of  that  he  should  come  down  to  lying 
in  the  sun  and  taking  quiet  walks  of  a  mile  or 
so,  and  living  on  pity  and  memory  and  medicine, 
though  memory,  I  think,  he  would  have  been 
spared.  Better  far  that,  if  he  had  to  make  an 
end,  one  of  the  keepers  (a  good  shot)  should 
help  him  to  it  in  the  middle  of  his  hunting. 
That  would  have  been  a  fortunate  death,  as 
deaths  go. 

But  he  did  not  die.  He  forced  himself  through 
a  dense  hedge  of  blackthorn,  came  out  combed 
and  fine,  stood  hesitating  among  the  first 
celandines,  and  was  off  after  a  hare.  He  never 
came  back.  If  he  could  not  bolt  out  of  this  world 
into  a  better,  where  there  is  hunting  for  ever, 
yet  with  his  head  on  one  side,  ears  cocked,  eyes 
bright,  he  would  not  be  refused  entrance  by  any 
quadruped  janitor  of  Paradise.  But  then  we 
do  not  know  what  stage  the  belief  in  a  future 
life  has  reached  among  dogs,  and  whatever 
the  dogmas,  heresies,  scientific  doctrines  (that 
the  fleshly  dog  manifestly  does  not  survive, 
etc.),  they  doubtless  have  no  power  to  influence 
the  law  and  lawgiver,  which  are  unknown  to 
those  it  most  nearly  concerns.  I  only  hope 
Mike  is — or,  rather,  I  wish  he  were — somehow, 

12 


178  MIKE 

still  hunting.     There   seemed  no  reason   why 
he  should  not  go  on  for  ever. 

I  tried  to  believe  that  each  one  of  the  Cleeve 
houses  had  a  canary,  or  a  book,  or  piece  of 
furniture,  or  an  Irish  terrier,  to  slip  a  kind  of  a 
soul  in  among  its  walls — that  is  in  the  case  of 
houses  not  occupied  by  persons  whom  Chris- 
tianity or  Maeterlinck  has  gifted  with  souls. 

(1911.) 


SAVED  TIME 


XIV 
SAVED  TIME 

I  DREAMED  that  I  walked  far  along  a  solitary 
and  unknown  road.  Nobody  met  or  passed  me, 
and  though  I  looked  through  many  gateways 
on  either  hand  I  saw  nobody  at  work  in  the  vast 
plains.  Nor  had  I  passed  or  seen  anywhere  in 
the  land  one  house,  one  coil  of  hearth  smoke, 
or  even  one  ruin,  when  suddenly  at  the  roadside 
between  two  trunks  of  oak,  and  under  their 
foliage  two  small  windows  gleamed  faintly  in  the 
shadow.  The  glass  was  dark  with  cobwebs, 
dead  spiders,  and  dead  flies  caught  in  the  webs  of 
the  dead  spiders ;  nothing  could  be  seen  through 
it  but  vague  forms,  yet  darker  than  the  darkness 
within,  such  as  are  to  be  seen  under  water  in  a 
momentary  half  calm.  But  there  was  a  door 
between  the  two  windows,  and  I  entered  as  if 
I  had  been  expected,  though  never  had  I  seen 
or  heard  before  of  a  house  in  the  heart  of  an 
empty  and  boundless  wilderness,  but  resembling 

181 


182  SAVED  TIME 

a  low  second-hand  furniture  or  marine  store 
in  a  decayed  part  of  London. 

The  door  would  not  open  wider  than  just  to 
admit  me  sideways,  so  full  was  the  room  of  its 
shadowy  wares.  These  were  all  objects  for 
holding  things — cupboards,  chests,  and  nests 
of  drawers  of  all  kinds,  delicate  cabinets,  heavy 
oak  chests,  boxes  massive  or  flimsy  and  of 
every  material  and  workmanship,  some  no  bigger 
than  children's  money-boxes,  iron  safes,  small 
decorated  caskets  of  ivory,  metals,  and  precious 
woods,  bags  and  baskets,  and  resting  in  numbers 
or  solitary  on  the  larger  articles  were  trinkets 
with  lids,  snuff-boxes,  and  the  like.  They  were 
clear  and  dark  in  a  light  of  underground,  the 
rows  and  piles  that  I  could  see  mysteriously 
suggested  one  invisible  infinity  of  others.  As 
I  trod  a  haze  of  dust  rained  and  whispered  un- 
ceasingly down  upon  them  and  from  off  them. 
Through  this  haze,  or  out  of  it  in  some  way,  like 
an  animal  out  of  its  lair,  appeared  a  small  old 
grey  man  with  cobweb  hair,  whiskers,  and 
eyebrows,  and  blue  eyes  that  flashed  out  of  the 
cobwebs  and  dust  whenever  they  moved.  His 
large  long  grey  hands  wriggled  and  twitched 
like  two  rats  cleaning  themselves.  He  was  all 


SAVED  TIME  183 

head  and  hands,  and  shadowy  grey  clothing  con- 
nected him  with  the  carpetless  floor  of  rotten 
planks  on  which  he  made  no  sound.  The 
dust  fell  upon  him  unnoticed  and  from  time 
to  time  dribbled  from  his  hair  and  beard  to  the 
ground. 

"  This,"  said  I  suddenly,  "  is  a  useful  kind 
of  box.  I  should  like  to  open  it,  if  I  may,  to  see 
whether  it  would  suit  me.  It  is  for  papers  that 
I  shall  never  look  at  again,  but  may  serve  to 
light  a  fire  or  make  a  footnote  for  an  historian 
in  my  grandchildren's  time.  If  you  would  brush 
the  dust  off  ..." 

"  Have  you  the  key  ?"  he  asked  in  a  voice 
that  made  my  throat  itch  into  a  cough.  Did 
he  think  me  a  locksmith,  or  what  ?  I  was 
annoyed,  but  said  questioningly,  "  No." 

"  Then  I  am  afraid  it  cannot  be  yours." 

"  But  of  course  not.     I  wish  to  buy  it." 

"  It  is  not  for  sale." 

"  It  is  reserved  then  for  one  of  the  multitude 
upon  this  highway  ?" 

"  Well,  yes.  But  I  hardly  expect  the  owner 
to  come  for  it  now.  It  has  been  here  some  fifty 
years." 

"  You  can't  sell  it  ?" 


184  SAVED  TIME 

"  Oh,  no  !  I  assure  you  it  would  be  of  no 
use  except  to  its  owner.  It  is  full." 

I  rapped  it,  thickening  the  haze  of  dust  and 
glancing  at  him  to  see  the  effect  of  the  hollow 
sound  on  his  expression.  It  had  not  the  effect 
I  expected,  but  he  raised  his  eyes  for  a  moment 
and  said: 

"  You  hear  ?     It  is  quite  full." 

I  smiled  with  a  feeling  in  which  amused  ex- 
pectation swamped  my  contempt  for  his  deceit. 

"  You  have  made  a  mistake.  Try  one  of  the 
others,"  he  said  patiently. 

I  cast  about  for  something  as  suitable,  and 
having  found  an  old  oak  tool-box  of  not  too 
heavy  make,  I  pointed  to  it  and  asked  if  he 
would  open  it.  Again  he  replied  simply: 

"  Have  you  the  key  ?" 

"  Naturally  not." 

"  Most  unnaturally  not.  But  if  you  have  not, 
then  the  box  cannot  be  opened.  I  am  afraid,  sir, 
you  have  come  under  a  pretence  or  a  mistake. 
This  box,  like  all  the  other  receptacles  here  is 
owned  by  someone  who  alone  has  the  power  to 
open  it,  if  he  wishes.  They  are  stored  here 
because  it  is  found  that  they  are  seldom  wanted. 
All  are  full.  They  contain  nothing  but  time." 


SAVED  TIME  185 

"  Time  ?" 

"  Yes,  time.  It  is  abundant,  you  perceive. 
All  those  boxes,  bags,  etc.,  contain  time.  Down 
below  " — here  he  pointed  to  the  decayed  floor — 
"  we  have  more,  some  of  them  as  much  as 
fifty  thousand  years  old." 

"  Then  probably  you  have  time  to  explain," 
I  said,  hardly  covering  my  amazement,  and  in 
a  moment  awed  by  the  reverberation  of  my 
words  in  a  cavern  which  the  echoes  proclaimed 
as  without  end.  The  planks  rippled  under  me. 
My  eyes  wandered  over  the  shop  until  they 
stopped  at  a  very  small  copper  box  enamelled 
on  the  sides  with  a  green  pattern  as  delicate  as 
the  grass- blade  armour  of  a  grasshopper;  the 
top  had  the  usual  grey  fur  of  dust. 

"  What  is  here?"  I  asked. 

'  That  is  the  time  saved  by  Lucy  Goldfinch 
and  Robert  Ploughman  twenty  years  ago. 
They  were  lovers,  and  used  to  walk  every 
Saturday  afternoon  along  the  main  road  for  a 
mile,  and  then  by  green  lanes  three  miles  more, 
until  they  came  to  a  farm  where  her  uncle  kept 
twenty-five  cows,  and  there  the  old  man  and  his 
wife  gave  them  tea.  After  they  had  been 
doing  this  for  two  years  Robert  learnt  a  path 


186  SAVED  TIME 

going  straight  from  the  main  road  to  the  farm, 
thus  saving  a  mile  or  nearly  an  hour,  for  they 
kissed  at  the  gates.  By  and  by  they  gave  up 
kissing  at  the  stiles  and  found  that  they  could 
walk  the  whole  way  in  three-quarters  of  an  hour. 
Soon  afterwards  they  were  married.  She  died 
long  ago,  but  he  probably  has  her  key.  Neither 
of  them  has  ever  called  here.  This/'  he  con- 
tinued, touching  a  plain  deal  box  with  iron 
edges,  "  This  is  another  box  of  his.  After  they 
had  been  married  a  little  while  he  thought  there 
was  no  good  reason  for  walking  three  miles  into 
the  town  to  his  work,  so  they  moved  into  the 
town.  The  time  thus  saved  was  deposited  in 
this  box  and  it  also  has  not  been  called  for." 

Against  Robert  Ploughman's  box  was  a 
solemn  chest  of  oak  with  panelled  sides,  and  I 
asked  what  it  was. 

"  This  may  have  to  go  back  at  any  time," 
said  the  manager.  "  Many  times  Mr.  Beam 
has  been  expected  to  send  for  it,  though  it  is 
only  three  or  four  years  old.  He  was  a  squire, 
whose  day  was  full  from  morning  till  night 
with  country  works  and  pleasures,  mostly 
the  same  thing.  There  was  no  doubt  that 
he  did  very  much,  what  with  planting,  building, 


SAVED  TIME  187 

and  so  on,  and  that  he  liked  doing  it.  Some- 
times he  used  to  turn  his  horse  Fencer  up  an 
old  road  and  let  him  do  as  he  liked,  while  he 
himself  sat  on  a  gate  and  read  Virgil,  at  least 
such  parts  as  he  had  succeeded  in  thoroughly 
understanding  at  school.  But  at  last  the  horse 
died  and  before  he  had  begun  to  remember 
at  the  thought  of  the  old  road  that  Fencer  really 
was  dead,  a  kind  friend  gave  him  a  motor  car. 
He  could  not  read  Virgil  in  a  motor  car  nor  could 
he  go  up  the  old  road,  so  that  it  was  clear  that 
he  saved  many  hours  a  week.  Those  saved  in 
this  way  are  sent  down  here,  but  as  he  has 
not  yet  learned  what  to  do  with  them  or  had 
any  need  of  them,  here  they  remain." 

He  spoke  with  the  same  grey  voice,  scattering 
dust  from  his  beard  as  his  lips  moved.  I 
glanced  here  and  there.  The  boxes  were  with- 
out end  and  I  could  no  longer  see  the  windows 
and  door.  The  room  was  vast,  and  neither 
walls  nor  ceiling  could  be  seen  through  the 
rows  and  piles.  Most  were  of  similar  pattern. 
They  were  square,  made  of  yellowish  brown  tin, 
or  deal,  or  wicker,  of  about  the  size  which  holds 
the  property  of  a  young  general  servant.  In 
the  midst  of  some  of  these  monotonous  groups 


188  SAVED  TIME 

were  chests  or  cabinets  of  more  massive  or 
more  delicate  make.  I  pointed  to  one  of  the 
groups  and  asked  what  they  contained.  He 
thrust  his  finger  through  the  dust  on  top  of  the 
master  box  which  was  an  iron  safe. 

"  This/'  he  said,  "  holds  the  savings  of  a  man 
who  invented  machines  for  saving  time.  In  a 
few  years  he  grew  rich  and  bought  the  chief 
house  of  his  native  parish.  He  employed  four 
gardeners.  He  did  not  live  there,  but  occasion- 
ally paid  visits  with  business  friends.  The  boxes 
you  see  round  about  belong  to  his  less  fortunate 
neighbours  in  the  parish.  They  also  have  saved 
time.  For  when  he  went  out  into  the  world 
the  women  used  to  bake  their  own  bread,  make 
most  of  the  family  clothes,  and  work  in  the  fields 
half  the  year.  Now  they  do  none  of  these 
things,  but  they  have  saved  time." 

No  ordinary  shopman  could  have  refrained 
from  pride  in  the  neat  regiment  of  boxes  over 
which  he  waved  his  hands  at  these  words. 
But  he  turned  with  me  to  a  solitary  cabinet  at 
the  side  of  another  group.  It  might  have  been 
supposed  to  hold  letters  or  a  few  hundred 
cigars,  and  was  scarcely  large  enough  for  my 
purpose. 


SAVED  TIME  189 

"  It  contains,"  he  said,  "  the  savings  of  a 
young  journalist.  He  was  an  industrious  youth, 
earning  a  living  without  quite  knowing  why  or 
how.  He  bit  off  the  ends  of  many  penholders, 
and  often  blackened  his  mouth  with  ink.  He 
had  an  old  pewter  inkstand,  once  the  property 
of  a  great-great-grandfather  who  was  a  pirate. 
He  used  to  say  that  out  of  this  inkstand  he  got 
more  than  ink,  but  his  friends  proved  that  this 
was  not  so  by  emptying  it  and  showing  that  it 
was  free  from  sediment.  They  advised  him 
to  buy  a  fountain  pen  because  it  wasted  no 
time  and  it  was  impossible  to  bite  the  end  of  it. 
This  he  did.  He  no  longer  bit  his  pen  or  paused 
with  the  nib  in  his  inkstand  which  was  now 
put  on  his  mantelpiece  and  polished  faithfully 
once  a  week.  He  saved  a  quantity  of  time 
as  his  friends  told  him ;  but  he  did  not  notice  it, 
for  he  continued  to  be  industrious  and  to  earn 
a  living  just  as  before.  His  friends,  however, 
were  right,  and  that  box  is  full  of  the  hours 
saved  by  him  in  ten  years.  It  is  not  likely 
that  he  will  come  in  search  of  them.  He  is  busy 
saving  more  time.  There  are  thousands  of 
similar  cabinets,  saved  by  fountain  pens,  type- 
writers, cash  registers,  and  the  like.  We  have 


190  SAVED  TIME 

also  some  millions  ready  for  holding  the  hours 
to  be  saved  by  the  navigation  of  the  air." 

He  became  verbose,  enumerating  tools,  pro- 
cesses and  machines  for  time  saving.  In  one 
parish  alone  enough  time  was  saved  to  extend 
back  to  William  the  Conqueror ;  in  some  cities 
it  went  beyond  the  landing  of  Caesar  to  the 
Stone  Age  and  even,  according  to  some  cal- 
culators, to  the  Eolithic  Age — if  such  an  age 
there  ever  was.  But  most  of  this  time  was  now 
in  the  underground  chambers  that  gave  so 
solemn  a  resonance  to  my  footsteps.  To  this 
too  mathematical  monologue  I  was  indifferent 
and  I  strayed  here  and  there  until  I  seemed  to 
recognize  a  home-made  chest  of  deal.  I  had 
made  several  myself  of  the  same  pattern  in 
former  years.  The  proportions  and  peculiar 
workmanship  marked  this  one  surely  as  mine. 
I  felt  in  my  pocket  for  my  keys  and  with  some 
agitation  chose  one  from  the  bunch.  Yes  !  .  .  . 
No,  not  quite.  Or  ...  I  could  not  open  it. 
Yet  I  could  have  sworn.  .  .  .  Meantime  the 
manager  had  come  up. 

'  This  is  my  chest,"  said  I  excitedly. 

"  Have  you  the  key  ?"  he  asked. 

"  This  almost  fits." 


SAVED  TIME  191 

"  Then  you  must  wait  until  you  have  found 
the  right  one.  People  sometimes  lose  their 
keys.  This  chest  contains  ..." 

But  what  he  said  was  so  absurdly  true  that  I 
raised  my  hand  to  strike  him.  He  fled.  I 
followed,  thundering  after  him  through  the  haze 
of  dust  and  the  myriad  chests  and  caskets.  I 
slid,  I  waded,  I  leapt,  with  incredible  feats  of 
speed  and  agility  after  the  silent  grey  man  until  he 
went  perpendicularly  down.  I  plunged  after  him 
into  space,  to  end,  I  suppose,  among  the  boxes 
containing  hours  saved  in  the  time  of  Lear;  but 
I  awoke  before  I  had  touched  ground  in  that 
tremendous  apartment.  Forcing  myself  asleep 
again  I  recovered  the  dream  and  heard  much  more 
from  the  shopman  which  it  would  be  tedious 
or  ridiculous  to  mention. 

(1911.) 


THE    MOON 


XV 
THE  MOON 

As  I  could  not  sleep  indoors,  I  thought  I  might 
be  able  to  out  of  doors.  The  host  and  hostess 
were  not  yet  in  bed  so  I  told  them  of  my  plan 
and  went  out.  The  full  moon  was  halfway  up 
the  sky  behind  a  sheet  of  gauze  here  and  there 
gathered  into  folds.  It  was  as  white  as  the 
few  clouds  about  it  in  the  low  sky.  The  earth 
was  a  massive  black  island  in  space  with  lakes 
of  moonblaze  on  the  plains  and  mists  of  moon- 
lit chalk  on  the  hills  amid  the  blackness.  My 
road  was  a  river  of  light  that  gave  no  light  as 
it  wound  into  black  and  out  to  white.  And 
there,  low  down  beneath  me  or  high  above,  I 
saw  light  on  a  portion  of  the  trunk  of  one  tree 
only  in  the  dark  wood.  Low  down  it  was  like 
a  fire  burning  without  a  sound  or  a  motion, 
and  no  figures  of  men  around  it.  To  express 
the  mystery  of  it  a  man  would  have  to  use 
better  fairies  than  were  ever  yet  seen  or,  at 


196  THE  MOON 

any  rate,  depicted  in  book  or  poem.  Those 
fairies  would  have  to  express  the  gaiety  in  what 
is  solemn,  a  kind  of  comedy  and  even  frivolity 
of  law.  In  Rossetti's  "Match  with  the  Moon  " 
there  is  too  much  of  the  man  and  too  little  of 
the  moon,  but  it  is  a  kind  of  beginning  of  what 
I  want.  I  was  a  pure  accident:  there  was  no 
one  whatever  to  see,  and  the  moonlight  was 
playing  alone  among  the  trees.  If  I  had  fancied 
it  was  playing  for  me  and  that  I  imagined  the 
playing  it  would  have  been  different.  It  would 
not  have  been  the  same  if  it  had  amused  me: 
it  was  no  more  amusing  than  the  majesty  of  the 
moon.  I  suppose  I  was  near  to  imagining  a 
deity  with  as  little  anthropomorphism  as  pos- 
sible, certainly  without  personification.  This  was 
the  kind  of  play  that  makes  the  frost  flowers 
on  dead  sticks  in  the  woods  on  winter  nights. 
It  had  a  kind  of  divine  prettiness,  a  holy  tricki- 
ness  as  of  an  angelic  columbine.  But  the 
solemnity  had  always  the  upper  hand  whether 
the  white  fire  was  at  a  tree  foot  or  nested  just 
under  the  ripples  of  the  wood  surface. 

I  buried  myself  in  a  haycock  not  far  from 
the  trees  and  fell  asleep  thinking  that  the  sky 
was  a  pool  strewn  with  swansdown  along  the 


THE  MOON  197 

currents.  The  wash  of  waves  among  the  reeds 
at  the  edges  of  the  land  was,  I  suppose,  the 
unceasing  rhythmless  sound  of  wind  in  the  trees. 
I  awoke  several  times  in  the  face  of  the  same 
white  moon  and  immense  woods,  seething  always 
in  the  light  continuous  wind. 


PRINTED   IN   GREAT   BRITAIN    BY 
BILLING     AND      SONS,      LIMITED, 
GUILDFORD    AND   ESHBR 


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